Divided we Fall but United we Rise
by Starry's Light
Summary: "Yeah, maybe she is stupid. And her memory isn't the best, either. But that's not necessarily a flaw in this world... it's twisted enough already. Besides, I chose her for a reason. Don't you have any faith in me?"
1. Trains Lead to Adventure

**I'm Starry, nice to meet you! I've never written an Animal Crossing story before, so as you can see... I'm really excited. X3 So! Welcome to Divided we Fall but United we Rise (Or DFUR (dee-fur) because that's not a mouthful) whose main character, one of well, many, stars a weirdo I named Lyla.  
(OC forums at the bottom of the chapter~!)**

 **So without further ado...**

Trains Lead to Adventure

 _Badumm-badumm; badumm-badumm; badumm-badumm; badummmmm..._

The train always sounds so giddy to him.

Beneath the soles of his particularly thick shoes, the rattling of the engine and the patter-patter of motion has always rather interested him. It's a groovy little beat, something he could listen to for a long time, that being if he had the patience to sit so still for once.

A hand pops from one side, a nicely-tanned but not-too-toasty sort of tan, this tracing the minty green rim of his glasses. Not on his face: specifically, they're _reading_ glasses, around his neck until they're _absolutely needed_. His checkered jacket, unbuttoned and matching—his favorite, turquoise and brown—splutters with the wind of the train whizzing by around him. His feet tap, somewhat nervously, upon wood.

Dull brown eyes pick across the seat behind him—he's standing, one hand on the rail—yes, he's cool like that—managing slowly their scrawl across faces. Blows a stray brown wave of curl from his eyes. There's happy faces, there's sad faces. There's sleeping faces specked in drool: his favorite. They make him laugh. Most of these faces have this habit on them called, well, fur; sometimes scales or mushy fins or something moist and amphibian-y like a frog.

But today there's a nicely pale-face sitting aside from the others. Checkered in dirt. Thrumming with the beat on the window of the train. A human—and there aren't many humans around here.

His large hand raises, waves over in a form of apology for the driver—they all know him—as he sidesteps from one part of wooden train to another, and in a silky five seconds stoops and plops himself into the seating in front of her. He's facing back; more or less she's facing the front. Two bobs of hair separate using the careful assessment of hair bands: they're fuzzy and sparkly but her hair is thick of chocolate curls. Aquamarine eyes—now that's a color. He likes that color, too.

The seating squishes around his figure like how it's sucked in hers. Gently he snaps a hand into the table, just in that right sweet spot where the wood peeled away somewhere on the inside, squishy but hollow: attracting her attention without that noise.

He practically owns the trains.

Sighting his display of kingly comfort, the driver snorts around his muzzle, and he cracks a grin.

It's been almost... ten years, now, since he graduated high school and began his life along the trains. He's gotten his network assessed and planned out since the beginning: everyone knows him, he knows everyone, and he's learned the rails enough to make quite the decent living. If anything, he _is_ the king of the rails. Literally.

This girl, on the other hand... Her shifting eyes alight in sight of some guy in front of her, some older guy she doesn't know. But man, she's not living at all.

If he took a gander, she'd have to be at least... two years out. Twenty—no. Four, tops. Twenty to twenty-two. Has to be. The stiff, crumpled dress resting about her body, simple white, fuzzy at the collar, has begun to show signs of wear. Other than the grime of course. That dress, he notices as modestly as he can, is nearly too small for her—hairlines of fabric from fitting.

Just as ill-fitting as her clothes is the life on the trains for this poor thing. He can't help but pity her—but a snap and a shake of the head, and it's time to work his magic.

He asks the girl her name, and with a yawn pops her response. Rustling bangs shift around her forehead with that lolling head of hers, smushed into the glass. He tries to be polite asking about her age—girls are weird like that.

Decent twenty-two.

Oh, he knew it.

Like marbles his gaze scatters across the entirety of the train car, of the faces of fur and fins surrounding. One of them, bleach white, a thick black nose in the midst of misty eyes, snorts toward him; a blue kitty by his side offers a wild grin. He winks back.

There are other too, hidden between the lines of the seats. Some most possibly could be in worse states than this girl—than this little Lyla here, only four or so years out of high school.

That's okay.

Turning himself back to small Lyla, he asks again, cloaking his words in his modesty, about what she's been doing here on the trains, how she's been faring.

In a just-as-modest retort in return, she attempts to deny all of her struggles of four years. Her hands, empty and tucked together, deny the lack of resources and deny the fact that her cheeks coat like makeup in weeks of grime—months, maybe, in the places behind her ears. She's seen better days, she mentions that, but she shrugs and refuses much else.

A stubborn one. Stubborn girls... he knows stubborn girls.

And he knows just how badly Lyla begs for his help, so he goes on.

Any siblings? Oh one. Parents? Yeah, my old man and old lady... somewhere back home. He awkwardly manages to word out the last time she's sent them a letter without seeming impolite—oh, it's been awhile. Awhile? Yes, awhile; letters aren't cheap and nor are my thoughts on them. Or whatever that means.

It's a risk, but he takes it. Maybe a little too early, but Lyla here looks tired and it'll probably slip anyways.

Quietly—so may I ask where you're going?

Oh, I don't know. Wherever the rails take me, I guess. A soft laugh.

He nods quietly, yeah, yeah, we all get that sometimes. Leads her away from the conversation a little, comforts her again—but it's palpable how easily he snuck that question by.

Stubborn girls—stubborn girls...

He asks her about her friends back at home; oh, but she never had much back then, her school was small and her friends probably don't remember her. Like her family? Yeah, maybe, she supposes. Somehow he knew Lyla's answer would be that casual, that melancholic. Detached from the "good old days."

So Lyla—here it comes—have you ever been to a place called Wherford?

She stiffens, knows what's coming. Darn those stubborn girls. He thinks about going back to subtle comfort in snide conversation, but her face is red beneath the dirt, so he'd better just move on.

Correcting himself, he softly tells her this is the place his friend lives in—name's Freya, you probably know her as much as you know me. But the thought of someone else gives a nod to Lyla's round head; he silently praises himself for another good one. She likes Freya, keeps listening. He tells her about other people, too. Freya's best friend and the best friend's best friend.

Lyla, nodding, mumbles, oh, I don't know. Maybe I'll go there sometime—I don't know.

He has to coax her into the thought of moving there: his head reels about what to ask, what to comfort her—ah. His gaze catches that cat and that dog in the corner again.

The golden in their gazes suggests he'd better keep going.

Rude. Do they want this more than him? A snort. Shake of the head.

So he asks her what kinds of animals she likes. They live everywhere as it is. And Lyla stops and she ponders this, and she mentions that frogs are fun people, but a little slimy she supposes. And dogs are sweet, she likes dogs; yeah, great, he likes dogs too. Oh, but she rather doesn't like cats—good, Freya's not one. Smirk in the corner of his eye: a modest one...

Head raised toward feathery clouds out the window, she mentions, just in passing, oh, yeah, birds, too. She likes birds a whole lot.

He asks her why. Remembers something in the back of his head.

Oh, they're beautiful, birds. No matter what, they always are, right? Sometimes you really can't tell with a bird, who they are, but their wings are pretty and their dances in the sky... they're just beautiful. She's adamant on this. Birds can do the worst things to people and still win your heart over, just because they're birds.

So quietly he smiles. She's smiling too, laughing a bit, sun on her chin.

And so, he asks her if she'd like to move to Wherford.

"Yeah, I think I will."

Her voice is a little soft, but that's mostly from the regular fogginess in her gaze, in the aquamarine eyes he thinks are pretty cool. She's bright, a little blustery sometimes. Chill. Strangely chill, making her seem like she's always forgetting something. Maybe she is.

The train subtly shifts beneath their feet. Gently, gently, they pass more rolling hills and soft plains speckled in daisies, innocent white daisies in specifics. They near the tunnel, and out they pop toward the town. It's a little spooky, little foggy, rainclouds overhead.

 _Kshhhhh..._

Lyla's the only one to get off at Wherford, but that doesn't stop her from leaving. When she scuttles away, he notes that she goes barefoot, and judging by the scrapes, she won't be as soon as she can. He offers her good-luck, and good-bye, Lyla, and it's not until the moment he's gone that she steps off toward the gate she realizes:

"I forgot to ask him his name... I must seem like the rudest person out there, oh my goodness..."

 **So, yeah, meet Lyla! Maybe we'll see more of her mystery friend, too~**


	2. Until the First Droplets of Rain

Until the First Droplets of Rain

Lyla's bare toes coldly press into the somewhat-soggy wood beneath her somewhat-soggy feet, pulling a face at all these... these _scrunchy_ sounds. Ulgh. Presses her hands gently to her temple just as the greatest crack of thunder she thinks she's ever heard in her entire life slams into the tiny gate area.

And there goes all the breath in her lungs.

Shaking her head, nibbling at her lip, the name of the strange boy and its whereabouts already discarded, Lyla slowly raises her head toward the slanted roof made of some textured form of scaffolding. She doesn't get it, but she feels like it'll hold. There's nobody else in their final slot before the train other than she. And so, with a chuffing apology, off goes the train itself, leaving her more or less stranded in Wherford.

Well, that's okay. Her pockets were empty anyways. She doesn't wanna sound crazy, but she'd gotten to this point where cutting off her hair and selling it was starting to look like the best idea in months. But just in strands; her hair has this annoying trait of being so inhumanely curly that to let it all out would be disastrou—

 _CRRRRGGggGGGGGggGGghhhhhhHHHh..._

Swallowing her feelings so they instead fill her lungs with something, Lyla awkwardly purses her lips and asks the air: "Hey, rain! You're sure loud today, aren't you?" She tries to be loud but she's never been the best at yelling. In elementary school, she was the one who followed her friends like the lost duckling she's more or less always been. "Umm! Real loud, yeah?"

Of course, nobody answers, and she can hardly hear herself over the thrumming on what may be a metal roof coating, but it comforts her somewhere, like a well-placed pat on the back.

Another smack of thunder raises its mighty hand upon the poor abused earth and Lyla tries something else, because trying to talk to the rain isn't working. "Man, Thunder! You're quite a scare! Yeah, that's it: I'll call you Thunder." A pause. "Wait. No. Fang. I'm gonna call you Fang. Because Fang sounds like the kind of name you'd give a dog, and boy, do I _love_ dogs." Another pause. " _Especially_ sweet dogs. Super kind dogs."

Satisfied with herself, Lyla trots from the train station in her tiny white dress, the one that manages to brush into the edges of her thighs and cover up to her shoulders even though it's years worn. Maybe it's magic. Yeah, she likes that thought. Maybe it's magic. Her magic bunny dress, because of the cotton tail she never got the urge to try and sell off of it.

Walking out of that storm only propels her into another.

"W-WAAAAAHHHHHHH!" The shriek bounces across the cobblestone rubbed in like the earth's skinned knee beneath her, bounces across the train station's coated walls, across the sky, across the grass, even, and it tosses Lyla to her chewed-up feet. She manages to land next to the fluffy cottony yellow thing beside her.

One look at the muzzle confirms that it's a dog. Fluffy, scrunchy ears sopping wet by this time, soft green dress to-the-ankles now soaking about her, bit of fluffy hair kept up by a dripping hair pin. And it takes time, searching the cute widdle doggy woggy face, but there's a bell hidden within the hair pin. Ah, so that's what that tingling sound is. She's relieved it's not... anything else!

And this dog is crying her life out of her eyes. Bawling. Tiny pink-padded paws immersed in her big, blue eyes, these nearly-shut like bridges trying to hold in the water. A gentle soul—maybe. But her sobs are waves against the sea of this raining world.

Yeah, Lyla was inwardly excited to get to go to Wherford, live there by that weird boy's blessing—she trusts a little too easily—but the rain. The rain with a dog whose first impression is "wah."

Fun.

But more fun than her quiet elementary school years so she shuts up about it.

Between her now-slick bangs happily crawling into her eyes, Lyla can tell there's a few figures just off in the trees, in the grasses and slim bits of flowers here and there. Further along, more to the right, there's a great hulking building, and further downwards, if she squints, she thinks she can see the outline of houses. Multiple houses. She wonders where the doggy lives, the cute doggy whose hiccuping face soon tilts in toward Lyla's.

And then she pauses.

"Buh—BUH? W-We don't have any humans li-living here!" Her crosshatched face of varying reds yells this even more than her blubbering shrieks. "Who are—oh! OH! No! No no no no this is perfect!" Without asking her opinion about the flawlessness of things, the tiny pink-padded paw grips her fingers with a ferocity she had yet to see, dragging her through the old cobblestone and the mud and the grass with anger-management issues until they reach that hulking structure from the distance. It's hard to see through the haze of droplets and fog and rain clouds, but it's a bit tall on the impressive side, and its brownish roof is glossy with its cover. Stone of varying white degrees builds up on the bottom: wood covers further up.

Lyla thinks the windows are so cute with their numerous window stickers of flowers and hearts. All as pink as the pad holding her hand.

They're in; thunder grumbles; door slams shut. The dog sags against her wet dress and her wet fur and her wet tears, mumbling off to herself yet again. She moves back, pulls her fuzzy yellow self together, and quickly tears some blankets off nearby chairs, tossing one to Lyla and one for herself. She gets the pink one; Lyla's is a weird checkered design of minty green and brown. Not a bad design, but a weird one.

Without a word the two attempt to rid themselves of their rain. When Lyla feels about as dry as she's getting for the next few hours, she tosses her blanket at the dog—realizing seconds later her poor choice in manners. "Oop! Sorry!" She bumbles into her companion at the attempt of catching it, and thus nearly bumbles into the wooden floor while she's at it.

"N-No, I'm sorry! I've be-been dragging you all over, haven't I?" sniffles the cute fuzzy dog. She takes Lyla's blanket and disperses off somewhere to hang it or something.

What a great moment to leave, right?

Lyla promptly forgets her rudeness as well as any shadiness the doggy woggy exhibited, glazing her gaze across a chamber almost as impressive as she was hoping it'd be. The nice stone walls, the top part refined in a chocolatey wood. Floor glazed in a lighter—birch?—version. Straight and wooden ceiling going _thump thump thump—_ does doggy live up in the attic? There's a great painting of some weird thingy in green and blue and sandy brown with purple splotches all over it. The splotches resemble pentagons but not enough to be sure... what the heck. What are pentagons used for again? Five sides... five angles...

Before she gets the chance to think this one out, out pops the fuzzy dog with her tail sweeping about behind her, heavy little piles of clothes in her hands. She mumbles something about it always raining and changes of clothes being important and go-ahead-take-all-the-ones-you-like-I-have-so-many-as-it-is.

Lyla's the kind of person to kindly accept others' kindness.

Also she has no other pairs of clothes.

Once they've comfortably dressed in different chambers and regroup, Lyla's pale arms brimming with frilly little doilies she doesn't think look very good on her like they do the dog, finally they introduce themselves.

"S-So um, what's your name..?"

"Er. Lyla."

"Oh, th-tha'ts cool."

"Oop. Sorry: What's your name?"

"Isabelle! It's ve-very nice to meet you, Lyla!"

They don't feel a need to shake hands after their little excursion.

Clearing her throat, face as red as it usually has come to be, Isabelle mumbles this into the little red collar she's situated around her neck: "S-Sooo... I grabbed your hand all nervously be-because, Lyla... I've been trying to... welll... It's a little tiny bit... um... complicated, you see..." Lots of nervous twitching.

Shaking her head, Isabelle goes on a little bit. "It's also a secret, so I can't really, e-eheh, tell you. But i-if you can help me, that would be great! I'm, I guess... trying to..." Her eyes shyly glance toward the weird mural in the back. Lyla notes the staircase tucked away by it. She wonders again, having forgotten it earlier, if that's, like, where Isabelle lives. In the attic above. "I'm trying to help out everyone and make them happier!"

Lyla stumbles back. Her aquamarine eyes widen a bit. "S-Sure!" Her yell is a ghost of the sounds outdoors. "Tha-That sounds great; just... please don't yell. I can't yell. I don't like yelling."

"S-Sorry." She shakes her head, fluffy ears floating in her wind. "I'm really emotional and... e-eh. I've been working at this goal for a little while, but it's a bit overwhelming... I can explain a bit more later. For now, d-do you... wa-wa-wanna live with me until we can... ge-get you a house? I guess?" Her tiny face is so hopeful that there's no way Lyla can turn her down.

Shyly, she responds, "You... haaaaaave been doing a lot for me, though." She's remembered that much. She's not _that_ stupid.

"I-It's fine. This means a-a lot to me, so I'll do a lot for you, if that helps mu-much. Ummm... I'll help you get situated and then I can show you around the place?" Isabelle's blush goes away with her loudness. Lyla nods approvingly.

Wait—"But, like, what's that weird painting thing you were looking at?"

"UM! My-My brother and I love painting... so we tried for a m-map of Wherford to put in here, s-so everyone knows what it lo-looks like... You can check that out, I-I guess, if you wanna before I show you aroun—I mean! Of course you can! I-I'm not your mom or anything..."

So before they head upstairs, Lyla does toss the mural another looksie. She goes with the assumption that the chamber they're in—did she call it a Town Hall?—is the big purple pentagon; the smaller ones might be those houses she saw earlier. There's a big, lazy, river, a blue snake flowing from the top-left corner, slanting down and then horizontally through the middle, and then going a little down, collecting at a pool, and flowing out through the right side. Beaches along the right-edge and bottom. Grass and grass—and a weird formation of cobblestone on the left edge, like with the train station up top. Stick-like image on top of it she can't decipher. Houses dot along the river to the top-right; houses fill the loopy bottom section... five, six, seven... nine? Nine, yeah.

Quietly she follows her new best friend up the stairs and into the pinkest room she's ever see in her entire life.

What a day.


	3. Fall onto the Soil of Today

Fall onto the Soil of Today

It's by extra raincoats, hers yellow and Isabelle's of course pink, hoods big enough to cover "a hippo's head and snout" as the tag so reads, that the two again enter the crying outside world of Wherford. Lyla quietly asks her what's up with all the rain; Isabelle mumbles that it's the usual, that or fog. She wonders if the strange boy who gave her his blessing duped her or something.

Their matching yellow-or-pink-heart rain boots cause this irritating _squwerp squwerp_ noise with each step, but it's more nice to be wearing actual shoes again. Did Lyla ever mention how much she loves shoes? Well, she does. She loves shoes. And birds. And nice dogs.

Only, when those aquamarine eyes of her vacantly cast across the land of Wherford, she soon finds that just to their left and downward is this almost shimmering home with a pink roof. She already met the dog... doesn't think there's a bird there... so... uh... Sound leaks through cracked-open windows, loud sound, heavy metal sound—cue guitar solo—and more heavy metal. The pink-roof home lies just near the edge of this weird cliff-side that sands off toward a lower beach—the beach on the right, oh yeah—and by the time they're standing atop the doormat, music jams up their legs and through their teeth. Isabelle, embarrassed, scuttles from this landing and squeaks as she covers her mouth.

It feels a little like she's sealing her fate when she gently knocks upon the plastic blue door, the door with a heart-shaped window: but the heart-shaped window was cut over in a black felt heart, and the black felt heart is broken in two, red line zigzagging like the music down its middle.

This just gives her warm fuzzies.

When eventually the door _crrrrks_ a crack open, and the spilling of music and light ominously reflect about the furry creature's body, Lyla's not sure if she's going to introduce or pee herself first.

A glitzy black shirt, wide-necked and slouching over her shoulders, reveals the thing's great amount of soft and pink fur. Her jeans tie down nearly to ankles; a gold belt loop hangs out from one side: a lot of it hangs out from one side. From that customized hole certain animals get in their clothes out swirls a fluffy, pink tail.

Until finally the gently-inked eyed lined in only the softest but hardest touches of mascara sees her. Fluffy ears twitch. Soft sunny eyes crinkle. "So," begins a murmur between jazz and her so beloved heavy metal, "who are you exactly?"

"You're Freya, right?"

"And you know me how, now?" The pink wolf goes rigid; creases line her furry forehead. Her ears fan back, just a twitch, just the slightest.

"Because of the boy on the train!" Oh, wait, she doesn't know the boy on the train. Oh no. "The boy... on the train... who... who... who knew you—said he knows you, he had glasses around his neck and... eyes. I can't remember what color, but he had eyes." Wait, everyone has eyes.

Slouching against her door frame, a smirking little grin coats Freya's frosty white maw. "Aaaaah. Him. Okay, yeah. I trust her." She turns back round; her tail swings straight into Lyla's face. "Hey, Fauna, she's okay! Isabelle's out here too for whatever reason! C'mon!"

The shy and soft pitter-patter of hooves on carpet accompanies a little brown face, the girl not much taller than Lyla—for once. Her little doe ears stick up right on her head; a blush gently touches her soft brown cheeks. The dimples on her head, little white snowballs, suggest that she's younger, but she's gotta be an adult, too. Twenty, maybe? The other girl, Freya... gosh. She's scary. Lyla has not a clue on her age, other than older than her.

"H-Hi! I'm Fauna; it's very nice to meet you! What's your name?" she asks, all soft and giggly, sweet and sappy, very unlike Isabelle's steaming emotions. But seeing the little doe, in her cottony dress of manilla, convinces the dog to swing by Lyla's side again.

Freya's uncomfortably yellow gaze back down to Fauna's reveals that oop, she forgot to ask. "It's no big. I'm Lyla." She forgot about asking the name of the boy on the train; Freya didn't so much as try to supply it. "I guess I'm your... new neighbor? At least, Isabelle said I could crash with her in the... hall town thingy until we can get a house." She's not sure how that works, but whatever, it'll probably work itself out or something.

Isabelle's mutters consist of town hall, town hall, town hall, for a good five seconds.

"Hah, that's so Isabelle," snorts the wolf. Her shorter friend whose fun size competes Lyla's glances curiously toward her again, offering her tiny Fauna smile. Her hoofed hands cup around one of Freya's, and the wolf smiles toward her again.

The dog by Lyla's side mumbles to herself about how Fauna and Freya have been best friends for as long as nobody even knows.

And they have been. The way the one leans toward the other protectively and the other giggles softly by her side makes it obvious that they're close. Like, really obvious. And because of Freya's entire composure you really don't wanna even think about touching Fauna, because there's this feeling you have that even though it's impossible, she _can_ read your mind and _will_ kill you for it.

Freya, furry pink fingers crunched against her door frame, mildly wonders, "So you're showing the newbie around the place now? Introductions? Because if I can, I'd rather like to take that over for you"—a strange look from Fauna; a splutter—"I mean, you've been working really hard and all and I'd like to get to know Lyla myself! So you should dry off with Fauna while I'm out, 'kay?"

The look in her gaze kindly suggests not to cross her. Spluttering, Isabelle nods her fuzzy yellow head and allows brown little Fauna—sweet and colored just like hot chocolate—to lead her into the blaring room full of heavy metal music—cue guitar solo. Lyla only manages to catch a glimpse or two of fluffy cushions and black-and-white-checkered cloths on tables maybe before the pink wolf yanks a nearby umbrella and escorts herself outside.

She's at a head taller than Lyla, maybe more. No. Wait. Yeah. Lyla goes to her shoulders, about. Almost.

And thus her formidable strength rises even more to the pale, slightly-drowned girl. Isabelle's clothing itches around her as those liquid yellow orbs gloss upon her. But there's a tiny smile on her cottony muzzle—does that count for anything? please count for something.

Freya, one paw in a jean pocket with the gold chain, the other tight on her pink-and-black lolita umbrella—unsurprisingly lolita—kindly pumps her head a bit toward the air and leads a slightly-drowned girl toward the left. A nearby structure with a blue roof begins rolling toward them. This one, despite its metal outside, similar to Freya's, warmly welcomes her. Mostly because there's no way anyone else in this town is scarier than Freya.

Yet from her fluffy but sleek posture and lolita choices and rad but well-picked clothing style, she isn't scary, she's cool. A cool wolf with a heavy metal sort of taste—cue guitar solo. The way she offers Lyla forward and the way she carries herself and leads Lyla onward doesn't proffer some foul taste in her mouth: she freaking is cool, and scary, but only scary when people get too close to Fauna, and man it hurts Lyla's mind, this difference.

They step closer to the house, the one with the blue-brick roof and the plastic blue door, this one adorning a regular rectangle cutout for a window. No creepy broken heart felt thingies to find. There's a feathery creature sitting against the doorstep, adjusting what appear to be wet shoes draping around clawed toes. Already a strange wetsuit capable of stuffing wings lies on his body; his yellow beak bent over in concentration, blue face hefted, red splotch upon his forehead vibrating with the thrumming of the rain.

"Hey, Jaaaay," she calls, just as casually and jazzy, "someone new is... living here? Living here! Yeah, that! Heeey, pay attention when someone's taaalking!" Snorting a bit, waiting for the newly-named Jay to sit up already, she turns directly around, clasping Lyla by the arm.

Fingers outright, she points out a few more places. "See that house, waaaay over there, by where the river ends? That's Fauna's." A strangely brown and half-wooden abode... not a pink ribbon in sight? "And over here," she shifts about a fourth around, "behind my house, that one with the red roof, that's Lucha. But I think Lucha's... sleeping or something. Geh."

Her nose twitches like she's about to sneeze. Something uncomfortable is coming—the back of Lyla's neck itches. Feels like this was why she came along in the first place... The jazzy wolf's voice lowers into little more than the pouring beside them: "Just... be careful around here. It rains a lot, but there's a pattern to it, if that makes any sense. Try to keep by a buddy rule often, cuz it's not good for you to go alone."

Offers no other complement to her wording. Lyla tries to swallow this whole, tries to remember it so that she won't be, like, screwed or something later. The way Freya whispers something like this sounds so dumb, but if there's anything the little pale girl has learned in this past hour, it's that Freya is to be trusted. Probably. She knows the boy on the train at leas—oh that's right! The boy on his train!

Just before Lyla receives the chance to ask about him, her pink friend abruptly turns yet again to greet Jay, whose webbed attire suggests he's going swimming. She learns that no, he's going jogging in _this_ weather _,_ because he's a _huge_ health nut, you see. Freya titters when he splutters his words, like he's lying or something. But at the same time he looks frightened to be near her: maybe he's just baffled at the moment. This pink wolfy does that to people.

Freya murmurs, lips hardly moving, "I think he cares about health maybe a smidge, but nothing when it comes to athletics. So I'm not sure why... but he's lying." Okay then, Freya. That's great.

Out from around Jay's house with impeccable timing approaches a very, very sho—vertically challenged figure. Squishy, green-and-black-and-brown-and-white face, the colors excessive and everywhere. He's in a regular tee now dotted by holes of rainwater, and the shirt at one point, before the ink ran, she thinks read "MVP." Huh.

When the frog strides along, Jay doffs his head toward him, and the frog more or less doffs his back. It's big and kind of hard to tell. He's so short though, oh goodness! Like, a little over half Lyla's size? What? Shut up, Lyla; he is a frog.

Freya, raising her paw again, points out a ratty house painted over in multiple colors, the roof the only sleek thing of it. It's not square but more in structure to Freya's and Jay's, so Lyla wants to know why the heck it hasn't fallen over yet. Maybe the paint's magic. She likes magic.

And then the frog doffs his head back to the girls beside him. "Yo!" His voice is deeper than Jay's by a long shot. "Nice t'meet'cha!" Deeper than the lakes here. "The name's Camofrog, for obvious reasons." Deeper than the ocean. Much deeper than the ocean. A little throaty, but a warm throaty—weirdly in positive comparison to that of an old man.

But the first thing that comes to Lyla's head is "CAMOFROG?" because she's not very smart.

"Yep!" But he's chill, and he's a little proud of his roots. "My mom was awful at names—see, I've got three sisters and we all agree I got the better of the names. Ribbit, Hop, and Puddles. Or, as I call 'em, Ribbons, Hem, and Perfume. Bahahaha! Y'get it?"

"Oh, man, that's like totally genius! I like your style, man!" Well, it looks like someone isn't mysteriously weird. "The name is Lyla: currently I'm crashing at the hall town place with Isabelle, but I'll get my own house eventually... I think," she goes on happily. Not even her excited voice gets much higher than the rain: she's embarrassed but doesn't really show it. Maybe she would, if she didn't think herself transparent as it is.

The frog with the best name of all his siblings reaches for her hand, and she only hesitates for a moment when she reaches his and learns that its small skin isn't at all moist as other frogs. Sighting her surprise, he bursts off into another round of laughter. "I use lotion; don't like the touch myself, either! Plus, my girlfriend absolutely _hates_ it. I rather like keepin' her happy." His muddy brown eyes twinkle a bit there. "Her name's Nibbles. You'll have to see her sometime; I'm sure she'd love a new friend."

Freya nods her approval by Lyla's side. "Oh, yeah. If there's anything to know about Nibbles, it's how badly she's always trying to befriend everyone."

Jay hoots softly from where he sits by his door before raising and nodding a bit. He doesn't offer much else than his agreement, then raising and lifting off in the jog he said he was going for. Like an escape. Until the rain obscures too much, his blurry blue figure kicks off around the river, just like where the line of houses have gone, and he goes down and down and further down. And then he's gone— _splat._

"Well, it took him longer to trip this time."

"Yeah. True, true, Freya."

Oh, so they're both in on this.

"Mmnh. It's getting wetter, and I think the thunder's coming back on soon. Let's get you back to Issy before she worries enough to drown both she and Fauna and ruin my equipment. Been nice seeing you!" she tosses back to the frog, who again doffs his head to her.

His camouflaged figure goes off after Jay, faster and a little bouncier in motion and faster to catch up to him.


	4. And Though First Impressions

And Though First Impressions

That awful sound, that _scrrrrrrch-scrrrrrch_ of tree bark fingers clawing against the glass of the window, continues its crying outdoors. There is this horrible choice for interior design, or wall-placement, or however it is people decide to align their windows, just past the head of the bed, of her new bed now, said Isabelle; and this horrible choice is going to keep her from ever using this bed of hers like she should.

It's naturally the weather's fault, like it is with everything wrong here. Gloomy fog cusps that mustachioed effect of mourning to the faces of her new friends. Trees and things bump into each other between bullets of raindrops. Marshy ground. Smells—constantly—like manure. Or something. Whatever you call that wetness clinging to the earth every time the sky feels the need to cry.

So emotional. Goodness gracious.

From the bumpy brown stairs on the bottom floor of the town hall, they lead upwards, and these point from the back of the attic area toward the front of the town hall. This albeit wise placement of rooms leaves there a bare, bleak area was it lacking the windows positioned just at the front. And of course Isabelle let the beds, with their heads at this front of the room, furthest away from the stairs—of course she just had to scoot them up close and personal to Lyla's new friend the window.

The rain is louder at night because everyone's holding their breath, trying to be silent, because all anyone wants to do is sleep. Sleep the darkness away. Which is more or less impossible because of those bullets of raindrops pecking like bluejays—not that birds would do such a thing to these poor windows.

And oh her goodness, Lyla can't sleep!

The thunder is bad enough on its own, but it's the lightning that sets her skin crawling. Bright-white, white-hot flashes, warm on cool, dreary color. It just lights up the room like a birthday party and sends the surprise beating down into her heart. Lyla didn't ask for a birthday party. She's not the birthday girl.

Oh her goodness she's so tired.

Because it's obvious, and awkwardly so, that the two girls present in the room can't sleep, the curly-haired brunette considers multiple times talking to the dog. But each moment she parts her lips beneath her scratchy pink covers, the lightning pounds, or the thunder sounds, and then she loses her nerve for another five seconds.

But she's tired and bored and hopeless so she shouts through the next great big _booooom_ anyways:

"Heeeeeeey; Isabelle?"

Hesitant stumbling over the scrunchy yellow dog's words. They're all whispers, clipped whispers, so Lyla has to wait some time before a coherent sentence manages to form. "Ye-Ye-Yesss, Lyla?"

Oh hey. Aquamarine eyes swim toward the top of her new blankets. She's scared too. Wait, no, _duh_ : of course she's scared, she's Isabelle. Albeit the thought of the poor thing cowering beneath her layers of covers is adorable. Yes, adorable, Isabelle has to be one of the cutest fluffy little things in all of existence. In Lyla's existence, at least.

They manage to talk, probably because both of them are just as jarred and just as jittery as the other.

"Isabelle, I like met Freya"— _booooosshhhhh_ —"and I like met Jaaay, but he, and Camofrog, and Fauna, and Frey"— _brrrrrgghhh—_ "aren't the only ones here, right?" Pause. "Oh and you of course. And whoever else visits here all the time." Whoever that may be. The brother she kept mentioning? What, does he have a thing for pink, too? Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Silence. Heavily spaced like loaves of birthday cake, waiting to meet the oven, bake, and thus be slathered on top of each other in heavenly layers topped with icing.

The silence is almost worse than the thunder. Makes her feel like Isabelle fell asleep; Lyla doesn't wanna be alone right now. It's not a phobia, not a complexion; she's just, like, rattled after everything. She means, she didn't just force herself into living the stable life of a citizen or anything. She hasn't eaten such ample servings of fruit in—errr, an amount of time. An amount of time much larger than what she's willing to mention.

Small swallow. Lyla only heard it because of the silence. "U-Um... well..." It already feels like she'll be dropping a few things from her words. "Like... her..."

 _BURRHHHHHHHHHhh..._

"YEEET!"

Silence. Deep breaths.

Aw, the poor thing. Admittedly if she wasn't so loud, maybe Lyla would cry too. She really has the feeling in her chest to ask Isabelle if they could stay in the same bed, because best friends do that on sleepovers, and it's overall a much safer feeling than having this whole entire mattress all to herself. It's eons long; it never ends. Lonely.

But she doesn't ask that, because she's smart enough to understand that at this point in her life she has no best friends.

Not a phobia, not a complexion. How long has she been living on the rails again? Do her parents even remember her? Wait, no, it hasn't been _that_ long...

"I mean!" Isabelle's squeal pierces through the stale air as well as Lyla's hidden ears. "No one else quite pink, buh-but there's a girl named Frita I think you'll like. You'll probably meet her soon... she's not one to hide. But Nibbles is... another story..." She goes off like she's scared to go on.

Wait... wait... what was it Camofrog said about his girlfriend?

He probably said something similar to that, like heck Lyla remembers.

"And... and... Deli's really, reaaaally sweet. Ye-Yeah, I-I should introduce the two of you in the morning, I think... He's, like, amazingly nice... ye-yeah..."

For a moment there, the rain outside gently, gently eases, and it seems as if there won't be anymore reason to keep them from their awaited rest.

Lyla has a question.

"But what were you saying about Fre—"

 _BURRRRRRRRRRRRURRRURURRRRRRRRRRRGRGRHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRHUHHHH_

The world crashes in on them for the amount of thunder that hits.

Isabelle's pained whisper; "It doesn't matter..!"

And finally...

"I um..." Blink. Gentle, guilty blink. "Okay."

She drops it.

Between her sunny doggy friend's begging and the fact that she can't even hear herself think, the pale girl beneath the blankets lets this friend guide her through the rapids of outdoors and into the very, very fine description of this Deli.

It takes loopy sentences of unbearable detail until she manages to figure out that Deli's not a locust at all but a _monkey_ of all things. Isabelle takes this unnecessary stroll through words and words of wintry scenes, and it takes paragraphs of essay-like wonder for his white fur to come to mind. Brown skin like hot chocolate—but not this hot, not this cold, not _that_ hot, not _that_ cold, back and forth and back again. Eyes a very specific color—want to guess? Like a gem! No, not rubies! Or diamond—or pearl—or—hey, you can't guess ruby twice!

Amethyst eyes. Big smile. Shaped like a fruit—banana smile. He eats a lot. Too much. Sleepy, lazy, doesn't know anything. Unfairly high metabolism.

The belly of the beast begins its slow digestion. Catcalls and shrieks of tree-branch-on-window finally tune and come to their deep-breathed end. Lyla slumps her face into her soft, soft pillow, and she nearly cries into it with a sob.

She's tempted, so tempted, to bring up her pink friend again, but the silence is so soothing she can't even bring herself to think of it.


	5. Matter the Most

Matter the Most

Hand in hand, fluffy paw twitching in pale sweaty fingers, the two make their way together. It's misty, not rainy: and for all Lyla can tell it's morning. More or less. She's still tired, though, cuz she got, like, _no_ sleep last night. Asking Isabelle about that little predicament proved that she was either getting used to it or rather screwed.

Of course, not in such big and ugly words. Stutters broke her sweet speech apart, which was, of course, adorable. Because that dog is the true incarnation of the word. All she is; everything she is; no, seriously.

Their wet shoes—still those matching galoshes—go _plubby-plubby-plat-plat_ on the mud together. It's funny, and it makes Lyla laugh; her friend offers this weird little stare but otherwise they go on in silence. Except for the _plubbies_ and all of the _plat-plats_ that follow, and Lyla laughs again, just a little louder. Her soft dog friend's face swells with a tomato red hue.

"I-I know I said we were go-going on a bit of an, I guess, umm, adventure, bu-but that didn't mean I thought you'd get so gi-giddy about it!"

"Friends! Friends! Friends!"

"Ly-Lyla, I don't even know if Deli—"

No use for her. "Frieeeendds!"

Soft sigh. They go on squeaking through their rubbery, muddy midst, because Lyla doesn't have much else to say and neither does Isabelle. The fluffy little dog, over-bright eyes slightly crossed, just leads on her friend—sh-she's friends with her, r-r-right?—toward the other parts of the village. It'll be good for this curly-haired brunette of hers to see more of her new home, more or less, especially on a day as nice as this.

It's only _misting!_ Not a spot of rain in _sight!_

These days don't happen often enough... Pink-padded paws situated in front of her, eyes tipped to the wet earth beneath, she bites at her tongue a little bit in thought. When Lyla's aquamarine orbs swim and see this, she goes, "Hey!" in that stable voice of hers, "what's up now?"

"N-Nothing, Lyla!" Yeep!—she's not your mom, Isabelle! "Ju-Juust thinking about things!" About... Golden cheeks puff, heart thumping, in wait for her friend to ask her if she's thinking about that plan of hers, the one she wants to exploit. The one where she makes everyone happy—we-well, more or less.

But she doesn't. Her glassy eyes and pale, wrinkled nose offer question; it's like she couldn't understand, even if Isabelle made it more obvious.

Tha-That's okay... she supposes. She doesn't know Lyla ve-very well, an...anyways...

Far left of the town, farther left than the gate entrance for the train, there lies the start of the river, before it trundles right and down, until swallowed by the cloudy air. This left portion, cleared by hasty stepping-stones over the water, leads to a small grassy area, leads further into a dipped space overlooking the southern beach.

And just in this area lies a house nigh completely constructed on bamboo alone. Nestled into a sandy little nook immersed in fruit-bearing trees, for all of its looks, Deli and his nearest neighbor have no need to roam very far from their homes to get what they need to survive. It's rare to see either of the two of them out and about.

Still, sometimes the snowy white monkey does poke his head from his home. Sometimes his brown feet move on their own. Sometimes he tends to his part-time-zen-garden-mostly-pile-of-rocks. Sometimes he'll rest in tree bark and snarf his bananas, his apples, his peaches. Sometimes he strolls on toward the beach, promptly passes out for a few hours, then bumbles on home to sleep more in his bed. Hardly anyone's been in this home, so for all they know, it's sand, like a trail, that leads toward his throne of a mattress.

But those are all rumors; for Deli tends to be quiet. A lazy, sleepy, practical sort of quiet. A comforting quiet. But who can blame him?

Hand in hand, Lyla finds herself facing the smudged-in door just before knocking: it makes her wonder if his house would be so... so _structured_ if it didn't rain so much. His personality, from all she's heard, just feels like a dandelion to blow away in the wind with all of your wishes. But at the same time, some of them come true. Maybe.

She likes the thought of magic sleeping around in the bowels of the town. She just... she likes magic, give her a break.

 _Pon-pon..._ Silence. Ungh. _Pon-pon!_ Still silence—was that a creaking noise? Guh, no good. _PONPONPON._

Finally the knob turns from beneath her pale little fingers, finally her calling answered. Exciting... oh man...

Of course, she's met with half-closed lids shadowing these misty eyes, hidden like the outdoors around her; and of course, like all mannerly people are, she's met with a yawn to the face. Smells like... eyes pucker. Too many bananas. Eugh. _Way_ too many bananas. Over- and under-ripe. All kinds of green-hued goodies.

Or maybe that's just the manure... Hnnnn...

"Hrrrmmm?" Sleepy, sleepy blinking. Lyla can feel her own yawn building up in her jaw. "Who's that here?" It's like a slow, slow buildup of sediment, the slow sculpting of a dam. "Why's she here?" Only it's gonna burst... "Ummmm, hellooooo?" Gonna burst... "Youuuu theeeeeere?"

Gonna—

"Hurrrnmmmmmmnnng..."

For just a moment those cloudy eyes glaze in the sunlight. "Why, hello, new best friend! Nice t'meet'cha! The name's Deli, how about you?" This funny, cheeky grin, only supplying half his face, opens the thick skull of bamboo wider, opens his place to her sleepy woes. His voice, soft and slippery and sly, offers more welcome to her than anything else. At least for now.

Wait, what was her name again? Wasn't it rude to..? Wait... Well, too late now. "Hey there... Isabelle said you lived here, and I'm new here, so I thought maybe I should, like, introduce myself, meet my new friends?" Her blinking nigh mirrors his; only her unfocused orbs don't search for anything in return. She's staring a little numbly into some world in her head. "Ummm... Lyyyla. The naame's Lyla."

"Hmm! Lyla, I like the sound of that name!"

Shaking her head, the curls around her face, futilely tied into their bands, go bobbling around her. This new smack of energy returns her to her thoughts, her world, her Wherford, and she struggles not to yawn again. Because that would be rude, right? And she doesn't wanna be rude...

Monkeys are fun, too, she guesses. But dogs are adorable. And birds are majestic.

But Deli is fun.

He's managed to suck the life back into his body, no matter how sleazy he looked before; amethyst eyes of bright wonder, he offers her a snack to which she happily replies yes. His eyes follow her even when he disperses and she and Isabelle wait and plop themselves on these nearby stones. They trace over her clothes, the pink and frilly ones obviously once in her partner's possession; he leaves a bit of curiosity behind.

Isabelle mumbles something under her now-swelling tongue. Her human friend catches bits of the words "cook" and "food" and "kind." Deli, Deli, Deli tacked across it.

When he does return, and the pawfuls he gives them _do_ taste well-prepared, well-seasoned, sweet but not too sweet and otherwise quite marvelous, she finds she'd better make a change in Deli's life and pester him more. If there's anyone she wants to be friends with, it's gotta be Deli, right?

Cheerful, he doffs his head; it takes her a good five seconds to connect the dots.

Food eases minds, eases tongues and the words that slip out; they go off in warm, lively banter that attracts Deli's neighbor. His home, in the distance, crafted of wood and similar to Fauna's abode in shape, smells soft and warm and woody, and nice woody if a little wet. Like manure.

But Curlos, the fuzzy friend whose said house is his, proves to rival Deli in his funness, a special kind of snuggy, checkers-playing fun that only he seems to provide. And because of his banter, his mouth provides the name of his... sister-cousin-something also living here.

And that supplies _her!_ Off from the mist summons the sibling-cousin-thing they call Frita; and then by her side she brings another friend, because it's not safe to go alone, said Freya.

Lyla doesn't catch much of a glimpse from this other one, because they're so small, because now the banter's too much and Deli, smiling awkwardly, radiates this feeling of overcrowding, because the mist clings to their hearts and sends shadows across happy-like faces. Like-happy. Sort-of-happy.

Unnerves her.

Fun, fun, fun...

But at the same time she likes these folks, and she's happy to catch glances of more of her neighbors, the ones she'll end up stuck with for however long, and she wants to be here, she thinks, she'd like to meet them more too. And she wants to see them interact with the others who live north of the river, who probably they do interact with only she has yet to see such a thing.

It's exciting, really. Energizes her tired twenty-two-years-old body. Out of money, full of... of... of.. ready? Readiness. Yeah, maybe.

Still, her way-too-emotional and way-too-compassionate doggy woggy friend insists, sighting Deli's turn of events, that hey, maybe they should go back now, go home. Isabelle can teach her more things of the you-know-what, but Lyla can't remember what the you-know-what is and she doesn't have the smarts to ask about it.

Because instead she has the grand idea of hey-Isabelle-let's-have-a-race-on-the-way-back! Which obviously has to be the best idea she's come up with so far. So she tags her friend with a light, springy hand and darts off through the trees and the bits of bamboo and the sands. The mud clings to her reluctant rain boots, which _squeeb_ and _squeeb_ and _squeeeeeeeeb_ of tyrannical subjection, only Lyla keeps running to their annoyance.

She doesn't even think of stopping, so caught up in her panting and running, which is fun, and also the thought of beating Isabelle—wait, Isabelle can't run can she, she's too Isabelle for it. Her feet make the dramatic _screeeeeeech_ of tripping from sucking mud to hard-packed cobblestone, like the cobblestone in front of the train station, only she's still in that grassy area near the river that isn't grassy after all. Guess Isabelle avoided it.

Must be a surprise, then. Oh, surprises. Lyla sure _loves_ surprises.

A shadow, thick and pointy coalesces her out-of-breath figure. Puffing, huffing, swollen pink cheeks, thick red lips, panting, panting, panting. She stays put, sucking at her lungs, at the air, more or less quieter than the air around her. Which isn't so hard, she notes, when you're all on your own.

…wait.

What was it Freya told her..? The words swimming in her head, just out of her oxygen-deprived reach, so she flops to the ground and waits for them to return. _Squeech._

Just in front of her the looming shadow figure lies. Curiosity traces her gaze, brings it winding up and up toward the start of the figure, revealing to be thick and brown, wood and hard. Big, ringed trunk blooming—blooming?—out from the splotch of mud in the midst of gray cobbles.

Up and up and up she tears, through the fog and through the sky, up and up until she has to get herself up too, totter for the tree, stick her hands into its bark skin, and then toss her head back.

Spiky like fingers, pointy fingers. A mass of frozen yet waggling arms in the howling whistle of the wind. Darked and pockmarked and spotting with death, still the big tree gasps and climbs to new heights. It's a mess, she sees: this unearthly, unholy mess that drips like droplets down her spine...

Curiosity, they say, killed the poor cat; though they also say curiosity was framed...


	6. There's no Reason to Fret

There's no Reason to Fret

 _Splat._

She's just sitting there, kinda fell, the clothing-that-was-Isabelle's wilting around her like very depressing flower petals, hands removed from the touch of bark. Touched in rain, touched in mist, now atop the cold, moist _plap_ of the cobbles. The water couldn't sink very much into the earth because of its stony armor, so now it's all clumped to her. The whole thing feels very slightly like she wet herself.

Smooth going, Lyla. She snorts at herself a little too cheerily than for what the situation calls. Head tossed up, she wonders; this is summer, right? Is this summer for little old Wherford? Like, it was summer just outside these rainy walls so like why wouldn't it be? It's so dreary. Geez, if this is the kinda weather in summer, or what's supposed to be summer: would there be snow in the winter? Lots of snow? Oh, she wonders...

August to be precise. Early August.

Not many fireworks lying around here, she sees.

Although, it's awfully hard to tell with all that fog clinging about the place... Curiously again she brings her head up toward that huge tree in front of her, glimpsing to try and picture missed leaves, fat and waxy ones, summer leaves that she didn't see last time; only her head crunches into something soft and curvy.

A shoulder. She can't tell much other than a checker-like red-and-black pattern upon the sleeve before she goes _flump_ back again into the water, sparkling bluish clear spots upon her. Shivering a bit in the mid-morning chill. Is it mid-morning? Like heck she knows.

Only her gaze goes swimming ahead and now the guy's gone. Well that's not fun.

Waiting... waiting... gone? Maybe she imagined it; wait no, there's no way she imagined it. Right? Or maybe she did. Was that crunch of fabric-on-shoulder, bumped against her forehead, even _real?_ And she doesn't know. Huh...

Gently she begins to lift to her feet; only this time it's a long and narrow hand, pressing into her stubborn curls, forcing her back onto her awkward floor position. Lyla splutters in place; her pink cheeks sing with this sense of... is this embarrassing or what? It's not Isabelle... no—no, that was _specifically_ a hand. Skin. Pale skin, she thinks pale skin... just the edge of a checkered sleeve...

"Why, hello, there."

And then a person. A human, that is: no fur, no tail, no scales, just skin. Really pale skin, paler than her skin, even. It's pearly like a gem... almost translucent, almost shining white skin beneath his puffy checkered sleeves. The front of his well-trimmed jacket meets in a tied-off curve toward the top; some bland black shirt pokes up from underneath. Button-up shirt, of course, he looks like a classy weirdo. Torn, denim sort of pants, silvery in shade. Someone it appears has... er... style.

Curled eyes, dark and mischievous, pierced into his flesh. Curled lips, almost naturally playful on the edges. Curled hair, soft and black and perfectly cupping his otherwise refined and shiny looks. But for that wild hair and the aura that follows.

Lyla's out of breath; she just stares at the guy, hands on the ground, going all _pant pant pant_ like a dog because she doesn't know what she's doing at this point.

His breath is soft, puffing up close and personal. Gentle words, shadowy meanings. She almost can't get a grip on this one. "It's verrry nice to meet you, dear girl."

"Dear girl?" she splutters, first thing that comes to mind, "who's the dear one now? You sure you're talkin' bout me? How sure? Really sure or not sure?" The mark of her words leave behind a near but not completely clean slate upon this weird boy's face.

She wonders then if he'll keep silent just like the boy on the train. Will _she_ learn about _him_ for once? And what's his deal? Where's his house? He has a house. Maybe. Her eyes, sharp and fluffy with thoughts, hardly notice his scrutinizing smirk.

"My name is Jaxk, and I believe you're Lyla, is that right?" Soft... but not so gentle. His whisper of his name, _Jaaaaaaxkk_ , cuts smoothly and perfectly through his words in such a way that she immediately screeches "Jaxk!" in her not-screaming voice in return.

Like an innocent little child. Ulgh.

So he laughs. Again with that unnerving topping attitude. "No, no, please don't bother your attempts to say it... I've seen enough of your ilk try and grow further feeble the more futile it proves to be." Again with that sly little grin, again with the whispers. They circle him, they can say his name right: _Jaahhxk_ , not _Jckx-ih-kh_ , not broken and awkward like a stone tossed through the window.

The brunette, pleased as she is with a response, pouts still in return. "But if I can't say it, what's the use in having your name in the first place? It's real sad, then!"

"Hmmm?" Those eyes of his mock some form of pity. "You find... what is this... _compassion_ in me, dear Lyla? Compassion, is it?" His smirk digs into her. "Very well. You may call me Jax instead. It's... easier."

And it is. In her trilling pride and gratitude, with the nimbleness of a tiny tot of a bird feeding out of its master's hand, she repeats it happily. _Jax, Jax, JAX!_ And she's not loud enough to voice her full feeling, but he sees enough of it in her. New friends are... exciting, right? He's a friend, isn't he? What else would he be? He's weird.

Softly that pressure, like a hand or a shoulder, maybe a cheek, the cheek of a face this time, brushes by her and she glances toward the weird boy with the black hair again. His smirk seems to ask her if she likes him or his name more; well, whatever, Lyla hardly knows the guy and she's already on the verge of forgetting him, so.

Somehow he seems more imposing. More predominant on the canvas of her life, his paint a stroke within beats of her breath... something that's gonna last. But maybe she's just being stupid again.

That gaze of his, thick and dark, cuts toward her again, and he murmurs more to themselves than either single one, "I suppose my time is coming near..." Furtive glance for the mists about them. Hastily asked—"Do you perhaps like the change of weather?"

He pulls out his grin like an umbrella, like he's waiting.

Lost and confused, Lyla's curl-haired head just bobbles and bobbles; it makes him laugh again. _Silly girl..._ his lips seem to whisper, but his eyes counteract: _Stupid, stupid little Lyla..._

"Yes, I do suppose it has come." Again with the glance, again with his penetrating eyes and their mark across her. Lyla nods a tiny bit more. "Do enjoy, dear Lyla, what our little town here may offer... this excursion, I would hope, and your little excursio _onnss_ to come...

Thick and heavy, his eyes watch her. He's moving back again; still he presses down on every side.

"And do enjoy our Halloween festivities... For me?"

Off he goes. Off he goes, into the mist...

Only for a second there, maybe it's a jump, maybe it's a trip... maybe he's flying...

Lyla entertains that thought because magic is radical. Kinda loses his last words in sight of that maybe-flight into the misty corner behind her. Forgets about the tree and the leaves that aren't there, slowly shaking those curls from her eyes.

She slowly lifts herself on stiff and strange bones, treading her aquamarine stare carefully; her ears stuffed of silent mist listen without hearing Isabelle, without hearing anyone, just again. But if she's silent and holds her breath and lets it out and holds it again: when she repeats long enough, when she waits all on her own, figures form around the mist. One figure in particular, glossy with muddy browns and marshy greens, beckons her forward. Shorter than her. Welcome.

Freya's words echo in the pit of her soul.

But they flutter out of reach... and she's so restless... and if she runs fast enough, then she'll beat _him,_ too...

So she shoves _him_ out behind her, and she goes off in search of something she doesn't even know of.


	7. Don't Worry Your Poor Head

Don't Worry Your Poor Head

Huffing and puffing in a very _not_ amphibian manner, fingers now glistening with both sweat and mucus—stupid lotion—the frog strode off through trees for the direction everyone swore Lyla took off for. Is she not the biggest idiot out there? How does she think they came up with their rules? Why wouldn't she listen to someone as scary as Freya?

Well, at least, everyone else thinks she's scary. _He_ doesn't.

Sorry, now is not the time, he knows. But he has to wait anyways. He made a poor choice in who he was forcing to come with.

Curlos is... oh gosh, he _is_ the slowest neighbor living in their town. Slower than Isabelle and himself and Jay—even _Jay_ can run longer than this smug little... Well, no. Curlos prefers to be known as this snuggly, cookie-baking gentleman. But right now he's this smug piece of...

The _crrch, crrch, crrch_ of slow-moving hooves allows Camofrog to keep track of his unfortunate partner: hey, he couldn't go alone. He's gonna listen to Freya, even if they do disagree on everything from Jay's secret to the situation they call Isabelle. Not to mention why Deli's always so sleazy. Camofrog knows the dude, they're pretty chill. Freya thinks he's a mess. But then again if she gave anyone half of her chores, they'd be worked possibly to the death. So her vote doesn't count.

Whatever. Come on, Curlos, he grumbles to himself, why did I choose you in the first place? Man, why is he so stupid?

Crossing his little webbed arms over his tee shirt—this one pink with this stupid anime frog on it—yes, Nibbles did pick it out for him—yes, he was coming to pick her up until _this had to happen_. Man, she's gonna be upset later.

"Hurf... hurf... hurf... Maaaaaan, I hate running..."

"I'd appreciate it if you ran faster, Curlos; we're gonna lose the kid if you keep going at this fastwalk of yours."

"I am jogging; I'll have you know!" Chocolate fur, cookie-yellow skin beneath, bright face shining with sweat and an old-fashioned scarf tossed across his neck. He's wearing those ridiculous half-buckle-shoes-half-boots combo again. The ones with the heels. Not to mention the beret.

Camofrog is a cursed creature.

He snorts, anger bubbling just below. "I'm gonna try to sprint the rest of the way; you keep up, make sure nothing... _certain_ happens. Got it?" He brusquely tosses this over his shoulder, already moving off again. The _shhhllh_ of webbed toes in mud.

The sheep friend hustles. A little more. "Wait!" he calls back. His voice has always been this funky mix of both sugar and a pinch of salt, flour caking in between. "Camofrog, wait! What if he's already—"

"Just keep going, soldier!"

"Whaaaat?"

"COME ON, CURLOS!"

So they run, through the town square and past that deranged town tree of theirs up and up the cobble circle without any sign of the brunette with the curls, that innocent and dumb look on her face. The one they should try to protect.

Gah, he's an idiot... might be too late anyways... That doesn't really matter; still, oh, he's an idiot...

Freya's gonna kill one of them for this... he can't blame her for it and she is going to kill him... that is, if Nibbles doesn't first...

Hoarsely he mumbles, "Lyla, what the heeeck..?"

…

"Hmmm," murmurs she in question to no one in particular. Well. No one's around, as far as she can tell. There was supposed to be something up with that, wasn't there? What was it, again? Eh; doesn't matter. Probably. Maybe. Euhhh...

This adventure of hers has taken her mist-strewn body up on the bridge again, torn past the train station and further, ducking behind the town hall because—because—heart beating rapidly—someone might see her if she doesn't. It's become a game now; it's—it's—it's—tag—no wait—hide and seek, hide and seek. And she can't let anyone else spot her. Then she loses.

When did this start? She feels like all this balled-up energy, tightly tucked up into an uncontrollable urge, resulted after that excursion with the boy, and so now she's getting herself into another one... But really, when _did_ this start? How? Why?

Not sure.

Shakes her curly-haired head and groans. This amount of humidity is seriously frizzing her up. It's awful.

Thick and hard to see through, unable to understand... unwilling to be understood...

Catches sight of someone further by. Wonders who it is. Shrugs. Oh hey—that house over there, with the red roof. Hidden behind Freya's massive pink. Who was that agai—Lucha. The word replaces all doubt on her tongue. Lucha!

Suddenly propelled by excitement, the pale body springs up from her hiding place and stuffs herself into the little door frame of Lucha's narrow and tall house. The one like Freya's, like Jay's, and like Camofrog's, but not quite any of these because of his personal customizations. Red and black... red and black...

Oh hey. What's that thing in the side of his house? It looks like a chimney, but it's sticking into the left side of the wall... why's he need a funnel? It's scraped by this thick-set tree going all up in his house's personal space; the tree's stuffing with shiny red apples.

Lyla's mouth waters a little bit.

Those are some _quality_ apples.

That is one _quality_ tree. And that funnel, the creepy one pressed into the tree, it's not very quality but it's pressed up to that tree like the tree is to his house, so Lyla's sure it holds some sacred function. She wonders if she should pester it. No, that'd be rude. Isn't it rude to break one of Freya's rules like that?

That's what it was!

She continues staring intently within the depths of the black-painted door. Black and sleek, her shadow blends into the color. She doesn't blend into the door—white skin too pale, hair too chestnut, eyes too blue, clothes too... Isabelle. Hmmm. Should she go in? Yeah, maybe. That might be a good idea.

Just prior to her perched fingers digging into sleek wood, she's struck with that thought upside the head: the one word, from the one talk, the one twisting and turning in that boy's torturous grin. _Excursionnssssssss..._

Like a snake. But he flew... snakes don't fly... but something else does...

The way he spoke that word suggested she'd be going on another soon. Her knuckles halt, brushing into wood. Another one... Fingers rubbing against the door.

Excursions... like there'd be one more...

Blinking a little dizzily, she glances again at that creepy, fruitful tree: the one with the shiny apples in the middle of a town without such luster even in the eyes of the villagers.

She wonders... but the thoughts always seem to slip out of her hand... and then they're gone.

 _Pon-pon-pon..._

A ripple of excitement glimpses her figure as she hears the _scrrch-scrrch_ of talons on wood, the mutter of Lucha's voice that he's coming, coming, coming.


	8. For Even in the Shade

For Even in the Shade

Lucha's face is startling red, fronted in white and gray feathers about him: beak to the edges. His wings—arms?—feature a dark and brooding blue, down from the back of his head and dipping into his chest before his shirt covers. His legs, red, until the final stretch from feather to talon. His feet, she notes, have been particularly decked in bracelets. Bracelets?

Multicolored bracelets adorn his feet, just above the ankle—that is, if talons have ankles. Do talons have ankles? Why should she know? She has feet, her goodness. His shirt's a little rumpled, and she thinks it depicts a very unrealistic horse character with a huge head and smaller body. What? Okay then. Cool.

Narrow eyes fall into slits in his face. They're gray, more a diluted hazel than anything else.

…

It takes a moment.

"YOU'RE A BIRD?"

"Aaa-A-Aa—"

Lyla struggles to shove her feelings down her throat instead of spittling all over this poor guy's face. But she almost can't help it.

Goodness, he's a _bird_. Birds are the coolest thing ever: they fly into the sky and they're so elegant that it doesn't matter whose side they're on, she'd do anything for them. Birds. She loves birds, and Lucha is the perfect incarnation of one. Because he is one.

The weird bead necklace about his throat rattles when he forces a step back.

"Ni-Niice to meet you..?"

Wait—whoa. His voice is small, almost raspy. Aw, that's sad. Poor guy. Did she scare him or something? Why would that be?

Oh. Wait. "Um! Sorry!" Oh never mind. She sounds quiet too... as usual. Mmmh. "You're Lucha, right? I'm—I'm Lyla, and I just moved here and stuff... and I like live with Isabelle...

Shyly, she searches for some bracelet on his foot to stare at. "And I'm just... really... really excited to meet you."

"A-Aah. Um." He sounds kinda like her when she stutters. Funny... "Thaank you..? I-If you're so sure... I don't get what you—u-um." Glances off. The feathers, the white and silver ones like a mask before the red, blush just as brightly as the latter. His beak shaking in front of his face, his words soft on his tongue.

Lyla laughs.

Lucha looks away.

He reluctantly moves past and lets her into his rather modest abode. The immediate scratch of carpeting catches her off-guard, after all the mud, all the—mud. Oh, gosh, _mud on her galoshes._ She kicks them off quickly, tosses them outdoors. Smudges out the mud in the modest white carpeting with her socked toes.

She glances up to catch the wallpaper of his small home, only it's been covered. Covered in... posters. Strange posters with characters like those of the creature on Lucha's shirt, the ones with the bigger heads. Big eyes, really big eyes. She cups her own in disappointment with their unakin size. Some of them are sparkly in dresses; others could be from a horror flick—only of course the characters look so... so... _animated_. That's the one.

It's a little creepy seeing all of this on the walls.

Her thoughts bounce back: to the talons with the bracelets, the rad beaded necklace, his soft voice, strangely empty gray eyes.

When was the last time he's been... outside?

Wait, right! He needs food, duh, so of course he's not just some broken soul surrounded by creatures whose eyes overcome their... their... their... she doesn't know. They're too big... it's creepy...

Sparse furnishings decorate Lucha's kingdom. Small plush figurines here and there; shut windows; a bed toward the corner decked with a tent supported by blankets. And of course these blankets have been designed with more of these characters.

He's not... alone in here... all the time... is he? This bird she thought was... was...

That funnel she spotted from before snakes its way from the jam in the wall directly onto the bed in the corner. Its white sheen gathers as the _ba-thum ba-thum_ of its sudden new occupant slides through and lands promptly upon the edge of the fluffy comforter. This as well covered in pictures of more of the big-eyed people.

Slowly the rotund being turns on one side. Bright and red... shinier than his eyes, like all the others...

So then... so then why...

Lips agape; she's not sure what to say.

What is she supposed to tell him?

"What a... what a collection..." Oof, disappointment crinkles her words. That's nasty. "It means a lot to you... d-doesn't it?" Gah, Lyla, why are you so upset? What's so wrong with this scene in the first place? Why can't she breathe now?

Rustling beneath the blankets. What's nex—oh, it's just his wing... just pulling out a lustrous box-like item from the tent. It glows on his face as he pulls it open—a laptop.

Lyla's eyes stare through the thing. She curiously peeps over past Lucha's feathery shoulder, curiously peeping at what it is he wants to show her...

And he's still a bird... and she realizes when their eyes meet from the glass's reflection—he's still just as beautiful, just as wonderful as one...

She really loves birds. Yet... but—he's...

Shyly, he mumbles, "Umm... this is my... collection, yes. It's taken... less time than you'd think." Restless shuffling on his feet. "T-To build such a kingdo—sorry, it's a... sort of a quote."

Words swim across the brightly-lit screen. Rows, images beside them—videos? "Magical Horses;" "Battle on Titan;" "Vegetables Basket;" "Blade Art Online;" …

"This one," he whispers, "is my favorite;" feathered finger hovering over this other name. "Desert Saga." Makes Lyla queasy. A little bit...

Oblivious, Lucha goes on. "It's about this girl who tries to make peace with her small-desert town and the other girls in it... only lots of things go horribly wrong and... um..." Splutter. A glance in the other direction. "And there's robot machines and... a lot of fights... but it's humorous, um, too..." Gaze suddenly thick, he mumbles off, staring at the screen and then looking away.

Stickers adorn the shell about his laptop.

All these artificial colors sicken her... and how he's... he's just... she doesn't really know what to say and it's driving her nuts. Shy and stupid and... and... forgetful—oh! Oh her goodness... Freya lives nearby, she might see her through the open door... and she swears she saw someone else approaching when she left the cobblestone area...

Hide-and-seek, was it?

The shy bird near her side—it's like he senses how she feels but doesn't know what to do with it. His cheeks get a bit redder, eyes refusing to hold; emotion after emotion pours into their diluted hazel depths. One moment he's nervous and can't sit still; only the next his beak gently part like he has something he needs to tell her.

And she doesn't know. Oh, darn her stupidity to some awfully deep pit! Deeply awful pit! Same thing!

In the end it's not Freya who loiters in on the awkward dope with the bird. The beautiful bird...

Nor is it her poor friend Isabelle who really deserves someone with less energy.

The peeking face of a wet frog—entering announced by the abrupt strike of thunder alongside—ushers toward her. Something like get out hits her in the face and she situates herself into the air outside. Stuffs her rain boots onto her stagnant feet.

When Camofrog himself returns, the warm brown form of Curlos thundering toward him something mad, just as the door clasps shut she can see these straight little bars going vertically in the window.

Birdies in their cages aren't meant to escape... beauties must be locked in by chilling gray...


	9. Of that Stupid Old Day

Of that Stupid Old Day

"Ghhhh... I'm really sorry about all that, Lyla. I get it if you're, er, mad or anything. It's not like you asked for any of this. Or whatever."

Honestly, the most unnerving part of it all is the intensity Camofrog's big-eyed thing on his shirt stares with. Bright pastel background in stripes, just like a batch from whatever kinda place Lyla came out of only moments ago. That shirt would fit right into Lucha's... collection.

"I'm... not... mad?" Blink. "Why do you think I'd be mad, Camofrog?"

His throaty voice pitches toward a sigh. "It doesn't matter that much. Kid, let's just get outta here... go somewhere a little safer, right? Go back to Deli... check on Isabelle..."

"Kid?" Blink again.

"My _gosh_ , Lyla."

"How old are you."

"Lyla."

"I need to know your age now."

"Ugghhh. Twenty-nine."

"Ohhh."

"Well, then how old are _you_?"

"Twenty-two..."

To her credit, a smug grin doesn't ripple across his face. "Whatever. I can call you 'Kid' if I feel like it. Doesn't matter that much." He begins the slower trot back again toward foggy oblivion now dampened with rain. Shivering, wet again, Lyla sort of stands there like an idiot.

True gentleman Curlos over there pulls an umbrella seemingly out of his own fur and fluffs it into the air above, holding out a golden hoof that she gladly takes. They more or less shuffle together beneath their sturdy fabric above, his hooves upon the handle and her hands swishing beside her. "It's just habit," he adds on later, voice jolly and simple, "never know when the poor clouds might start crying up there."

"Heheh..." She smiles. "That's kind of a cute way to consider it."

"Yeah, that's what I thought!" He laughs then, and she nods back. Curlos is pretty rad. He just... he just is. Except not in those exact words, because he's more fashionable or spiffy than rad.

Camofrog—now he's rad. A classy sort of rad. But not the classy that involves tuxedos. Small frame turning round when the two of them go plopping through the mud, laughing back at their new thigh-high streaks. Curlos complains about having to take another hot bath, using up his bath bombs and lavender soap... but hey, it's more than worth it; he gets all this muck in his fur and then has all the more reason to bathe again and again, and then smell evermore of sweet, sweet lavender...

She tries to ask Curlos why he doesn't just go outside for pinches of time when he'll have to bathe anyways; oh, but he explains, baking requires cleanliness—you don't want to get anything into your pastries, do you?

Makes her laugh. He's a fun softy. Camofrog, hearing her, warns her gently that if anyone has a temper, it's Curlos. The sheep shrugs him off. Because surely Camofrog is quite the angel.

"Yeah, whatever, Curlos. You can't run fast for anything."

"I could run for bath bombs!"

"Well, I'm sorry, but I hate bath bombs. Also my sensitive skin can't take all that much." He snorts. "They sound like a hazard to society as it is. What am I doing now? Tossing a messy conglomeration of glitter and smell into my bathing water? Euughh!"

They take a different path on the way back. Instead of all the way left and down the cobblestone circle, Camofrog has the three of them turn early through a larger area of land. Past trees and the occasional flower approaches that one bump in the river, where it curves down in front of them then up and right and out of the way. A conveniently-placed bit of wood and string—some sorta bridge—allows easier crossing.

And then they turn right again, and down more. Pass by a happy-looking home full of a color very unlike... Lucha's. Comfortably the frog tacks on: "Oh, yeah, that's where my girlfriend lives. I mentioned Nibbles, didn't I, Lyla?" He did; doesn't offer an explanation to why he goes so silent afterward.

It's smooth crossing back toward the bottom-left corner of their home. As it would be on that one mural... oh... Oh, gosh. Isabelle wouldn't hate her—not in her blood—but she must be _really_ upset! Man, Lyla screwed up! Bad!

The bamboo home approaches in front of them. Curlos, with a friendly adieu, approaches his square abode that's like Fauna's brownish home and leaves only the faint scent of flowers behind. She likes him. Yeah, he's cool too.

Camofrog's a little slower crossing to the gently-painted door. "Um... Lyla..." He can't keep a straight face again. "I'm... sorry about what happened. I—I don't mean to come off as cross or anything—least of all would I wanna—but I get that rough things were happening. Just... try to listen to that one rule, okay? It's bad to be alone out here. It just... it just _is_." Wince.

"But uhh.. I'm seein' that you're curious about us... like that look you were having with Lucha. Umm... Hnn... How do I..." He bites a bit of his lip, sighs. "I guess you really don't know any of us. We've all been stuck with each other for at least a couple years now—some of us've been round for just as long as it took to get out of high school, far as I know. That being Freya and Fauna.

"Err... what I'm trying to say is, would you like it if I helped you with getting to know everyone and our.. special little situation?"

She's speechless for a moment there.

That might be the kindest thing someone's ever said to her. Well heck. "I-I... really would appreciate that, Camofrog... um, thank you real much. I'm... um... happy to... be your friend."

Gosh, now she's embarrassed. That is, again.

"Friend?" he laughs, "who said we were—hey! Don't pull out that long face, I'm joking. And I have to say I'm pleased to've met you too. It's... good to be your friend." And he smiles a bit at that.

And he stops just short again of opening the door. "Sorry. Have to ask... Did anything happen while you were out there on your own?" He turns full-on up toward her then, murky eyes staring into her aquamarine soul.

Fiddling with her skirt's pockets, Lyla again feels dumbfounded.

Was there really anything to report? Well... there was...

"Halloween. I thought it was summer?"

"Hrr? Errr..."

He's skilled enough at camouflaging his pale surprise that Lyla doesn't even stir.

"Maybe it is summer. Wherford's a... bit of a special place."

The omnipresent growl of thunder on the prowl keeps them on their toes again.

"Y'know what? I call for a sleepover. All four of us are staying at Deli's all night. Got it, Lyla?"

"Oh, man! That's great!"

"Yeah! It'll be fun."

And so they enter with the white-hot flash of lightning at their backs.


	10. I Think We'll Stay Together

I Think We'll Stay Together.

Surely enough, a small puddle of oozing yellow fur greets Lyla by the open door. To her left, Camofrog ushers it shut, reminding her hey, she better take off those rain boots of hers. Deli's house is a bit modest like... like someone else's, but it's got quaint space and not a strange big-eyed creature in sight. She peels off her slick shoes, sticky socks, sighing when bare toes broach Deli's soft wood floor.

Isabelle manages to lift her tear-stained head by that time. Her lakes of big, bright blue eyes have yet to even scratch her arsenal of water. Guilt and shame festers in Lyla's hot cheeks as she slumps to the ground and gently hugs her sodden friend. Other than her tears and her own nervous reaction, she's not all that wet, surprisingly dry for her composure: hey, there's a positive thought.

Behind her, smiling all leisurely, up strolls cool-faced Deli. His amethyst eyes shine cheerfully. Offers a dark hand not unlike in the structure of her own, and they shake.

"Sorry," she mumbles as greeting. "I'm a... weirdo. Hahaha..." She can't hold his happy gaze.

Deli just doesn't let that smile go; she can feel it beating down on her. "Well, you're new. Lyla, we hardly know what to do with you, see. We're so used to everyone else it's hard to remember sometimes that... hnn..?" His curious murmur halts for a moment. "Why such a long face, you poor girl?"

"Found her at your old buddy's house."

"Aah." Deli doffs his head, again with his leisure delight, to the frog, nodding to himself. "Yeah, Lucha's.. special. He's been my best friend, more or less, for years now. He's gotten a little... stranger, I'll say... after we moved out of the house and came here... when was that... six years ago." His voice suggests he's pleased to remember.

Camofrog raises his murky brown eyes. "Where do you keep your bedrolls? I swear you had a few lying around here..."

"Heh!" Deli giggles. "I get lazy, gotta have a few lying around in case I need to stop and sleep." Shameless about it. "They're in the upper-left corner, yeah—there, behind the brown screen in the cor—"

"Whyy the heck do you have so many pillows?" A grunt, something fluffy and big lands _shmurph_ in front of them. "So many _blankets_!" Another grunt, another landing: _smurffh!_ "And what's this? Deli, do you have a _Magical Horses doll_?"

Again giggles the monkey. "Well! Lucha was _very_ pent on me having _something_. I think I could've chosen worse. And it's kind of cute, isn't it?"

"It's anime. Not cute. The heads are freaky. Those eyes are pure _daunting_ , Deli, _gosh_."

Oh, that's what it's called. The shirt that he had on... the one with the horse icon on it... and then Camofrog's...

She speaks without thinking: "Hey, what's the frog thing on your tee? I-I-Is that 'anii-meh' too?"

"Nibbles wanted me to wear it! Her fault for thinking it was _cute_ or whatever..." His grumbles reduce to the bit of air between his lip and the edge of personal space. More shuffling, more tosses of fluffy blankets and pillows and finally the cinnamon rolls they're supposed to sleep on— _unrolled_ , Deli tries to explain.

Isabelle, sniffling in her friend's arms, massages a fluffy little paw over her shivering face and _snorks_ loudly—then screams. "YEEEEEK! A-A-AAAAH I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY LYLA!"

The girl in question slowly and hesitantly flicks a bit of booger from her cheek.

"Deli? Is there any chance you have a handkerchief or something?"

He takes one glance at the exhausted pair and leaps up to search. So much energy in his step...

The small group manages, finally, to settle into bedrolls—or in Deli's case, his own bed, mattress off the frame and by the others—blankets and bundled assortments billowing all across them. Lyla, bouncing on a pile of such frippery, cries, "Fun!" with the sleepover and the somewhat-weeping doggy friend beside her. She in question mumbles, "We don't even have a change of clothes... or the means to change into them..."

"Umm... I have that screen... and you could wear my stuff..?"

"EEEK! NO DELI NO!" Isabelle stops mid-chant, face livid. "AAAH! I DON'T MEAN TO BE RUDE! I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SOR—"

Lyla very casually places a pale hand over her friend's spluttering mouth. "Dude. Chill. It's all good. We can get changes in the morning, anyways."

Said fuzzy friend near faints in the midst of her knotted anguish. "Dhh—umm..." Steadily the other's hand creeps up to her hair; Lyla pretends they aren't all staring at her as the hair bands come loose, one after the other, and her long curls frizz near the size of an afro. Her bangs upon her forehead, on the other head, are short enough to keep the frizzles _marginally_ reduced. But she can't pull off that length of hair...

"I-Isabelle, I'm sorry for... running off." Squeaking from beneath her rapidly-wetting hand. Lyla doesn't move it. Tries to keep poor Isabelle's denial minimal. "I wasn't thinking... I'm not, er, very good at thinkin', see. And I'm... sorry I upset you. I know you got that way, you don't have to say it...

She glances off again. Accidentally lands within Deli's great amethyst orbs and finds herself near-paralyzed. "But, um... I wanna be your friend... and if it's okay, I've really liked stayin' with you, even if it's only been a couple days so far... s-so thanks..."

Her great ocean eyes move from the floor, to Camofrog's little smirk, to Deli's smile, to Lyla's stare replaced to the ground in front of them. "A-A-AAaaahh!" She billows herself into her friend's side. "Tha-Thaaank you, Lylaaaaa! That makes me really haappyyyy!" Thus they go on blubbering like this for a few minutes.

"Y'know, Isabelle, you don't have to live in the town hall... though I guess you're comfortable there now?" The frog snorts. "But if you want, Lyla, we can wait or whatever before we pester the builder guy for your house—he's in another town as it is. No harm done, probably for the best anyways."

He rolls his eyes at their weepy display of affection.

Deli, bumping his amphibian friend's shoulder, saunters off to a shelf to find a board game—one of those long ones that takes hours until completion, where everyone starts off playing on their own until it's this cannibalistic reign for champion and sometimes people later team up and other times it's just a horrendous mess. But it's fun, too.

They play until the sun sets and fall into rest with the rain. It's louder now, menacing thunder a growl of warning...

Lyla wakens with a crumpled play-bell from the game on her chin, Deli already up and running, almost done with clearing up the game. This was impressive; Camofrog _did_ toss the entire board at the wall when he went bankrupt.

It's as the four settle into morning sleepiness and a waft of coffee rustles the air when a restless _pon-pon-pon_ rumbles at the door. Lyla, closest and curious, pops open the handle.

She's not sure what to say when diluted gray eyes meet her aquamarine through the opening crack. She just stands there, heart in her thumping chest. Good job, Lyla, good job.

"Er—um!" splutters none other than Lucha himself. "I—It took four doors and f-five or something angry villagers but I found... found... ahhhh..."

"Ehhh? Lucha, what are you doing here? _Outside_?" His best friend tumbles out into his doorway and yanks his more or less half-dead bird indoors, ignoring how mucky the welcome mat gets.

Mug in his feathers, coffee on his lips, he manages to string out another coherent sentence. "Er—Lyla, I wanted to... u-ummm... I—I just... felt bad." He can't look at anyone, anything, anything that isn't Deli makes him cringe. "I felt bad that you really wanted to meet me and... and I felt bad that you got sad about... er, me. S-So I felt bad and wanted to... d-d-do something about it..."

Blushing. Looking away.

"I-Is it okay if I come over..? An-And please force yourself into my house more... I-I like the company..."

The white-furred monkey, brown face warm, smiles to this.

Lyla's still really not sure what to say... but she feels different. She's—surprised—for sure—but happy, happy, too... she thinks about hugging him, but he hardly knows him, and he looks like the next strong breeze is gonna force him over so... maybe a-another time. Yeah...

Still she smiles, and Isabelle squeaks all happy and fluffy, and Camofrog spits coffee from his nose in disbelief. "Lyla, what are you?" he crows, only she doesn't know, and the others don't know her, they just know that she made the most immobile bird they ever knew move himself again.

Lyla blinks.

Second-most-immobile bird.

There's still one more... but she's happy... she is happy... the bright red one, the one she fell in awe to, he's gonna be her friend too...

…

Tan fingers trace the edge of a crudely-cut desk. Creaky wood groans with his taps. Mint glasses flickering under his nose, smile happy and grim, his other hand fishes for his pocket. Somehow the guy let him into his store.

The tanuki in front of him stiffens with each motion his "customer" makes. Waiting. Big dark eyes hesitant and waiting. He shifts in his starched shirt, the one with the green sweater and the white sleeves and the red bow.

"Why, _thank you_ for letting your doors open to me, Tom."

His first words. Nook flinches back, tries to hide it. He sighs between tight lips as the boy in front of him finishes with his fishing, and out pulls a— _thuk—_ rather large coin. Golden. Shimmering. He pulls a small handful of metallic bells from his pocket, glances at the coin much thicker and bigger than these, and stows them away again. Thought it wasn't money.

"I know, good sir, that time is money. So I pay you handsomely to listen to these words of mine."

Nook twitches under that dark-eyed stare of his... the boy'd make him listen whether he "paid" him or no.

The boy adjusts his mint glasses, lets them fall around his neck. His freckled cheeks sharpen, lips purse. "There's a new one... you know _where_."

"Hm?" He can't help it. Surprise caught him in the stomach. He's been a little nervous, little fidgety this whole time—but he didn't expect to hear...

That ratty, tan kid's eyes sharpen. "Mmmh? Caught your attention now, didn't I?" Casually, as his words flow like honey from his dribbling lips, his finger traces the design on that coin of his. "So anyways... what was it I so wished to tell you?

"Listen closely."

Nook tightens his own lips. What did that thing _think_ he was doing?

The tan one again raises his gaze out for him. "There are lots of people out here in our world... wouldn't you agree, Tom? Yes; yes... _Lots_ of different kinds..." A dangerous glint of a smile to his lips.

"Boy," he grumbles, brusque, "I know. Very well." And you're one of the bad ones, he adds silently to himself.

"People think they're so grand, sometimes... until pieces of them go missing... until someone hurts them... then they wail and wail for attention... but who cares about someone else? It's _you_ that matters."

He knows better than to voice his own opinion.

"Now, you know what's truly grand? Idiocy." He grinds the word under his heel. "You don't think about it. You barge into someone else's business... and sometimes it's curiosity—perhaps a spotty memory—but you help them. Much as it takes. Anyways.

"And even the smart ones can't best them. Because smart ones know when to quit trying to help. They know when it's too late."

That dark little grin of his expands. "But stupid people don't. So they can't give up."

Giggle.

"Oh, she thinks she has it so easy..."

Nook's eyes flash. "And don't you think so too." He knows what he might do, or perhaps someone else, if he proffers his opinion. But it's instinct. Happens anyways, sometimes. "Well, if stupidity is the true hero, and forgetfulness its sidekick, then so be it. What did you want, boy?"

"Ohh?" Then the boy's eyes flash, too. "I'm just warning you... you know, _he_ thinks the newbie's great. He's excited to see what she gets into... all sorts of turmoil might come unearthed, and _he_ is very excited. _He_ likes her. A _lot_." A small pout.

"I just hope she doesn't give up too soon... hehhehhehhhehh..."

Nook drops his gaze. "Of course, boy," he murmurs, eyes in the earth, "now hand over the coin, will you?"

The shadow drops as the gold sprinkles in his furry hand. "There y'go, Tom... You know what _he_ says... 'Pay yourself, if no one else is there to pay for you.' Heh. But I'm all alone and _I_ don't have to..."

"Of course not, boy."

Nook sighs as the figure stalks out from his shop, door not so much as whispering behind him.

"Jaxk already took your piece of self as it is..."

 **Hi! Yeah, this was a longer chapter... xD but I had some stuff I had to cover...**

 **So, what's going on? What does Tom Nook have to do with anything? Is that the boy from chapter one? (yes it is xD)  
And who can forget Halloween?  
You can question Jaxk all you want, but he makes no more... _physical_ appearances until much later in the story. X3 You'll have to live off of Lyla and her other friends, as well as whoever else may show, for now~  
There's a lot of parallels going on in this story isn't there xD  
**

 **So that was the first... "sentence." Sort of like an arc. (hence the period at the end of this chapter name) This is more of the introductory stuff and basic/first questions.**

 **What do you think of Wherford? How about Lyla? XD She can be a little frustrating, forgetting things all the time and making bad decisions...**

 **oh, and if you're wondering, if you keep reading, you -do- learn the name of the boy from the train... and his intentions as well. X3 Thank you for getting this far!**


	11. When it's Nice Outside

When it's Nice Outside

"Yo!" Cough. "Oh, come on... why don't you hear me?" Another cough, more banging at the door. "YOOOO! LYLA, YOU IN THERE? WAKE UUUUUUP!" More snorts and more banging ensue until eventually, yes, his wishes are answered and that door does shuffle open some sum of a notch. Aquamarine eye replaces a section of open crack as Lyla squints and stares at the crazy little man perched in front of her Town Hall.

And then she coughs back. "Um. Camofrog, what the hey are you doing here and why, oh why, _why_ so early?"

"It's not that early," the muddy frog grumbles, "you just sleep in too late. Hmph. Even Freya's awake. She gets some crazy amount of sleep at night, what, twelve hours? She's awake. Get up." Those murky, camouflaged eyes won't give up their ground to Lyla's one. The two of them kind of stand and stare like that until she shuffles away from the door and returns some minutes later in acceptable attire.

Then it hits her. "Dude, wait. How'd _._ you get here... by yourself?" She's trying so hard to take in that rule clearly now. She pins it to her chest every morning and takes it off only once she's safe at bed. She's silently screaming at herself from forgetting since that mess was sort of an emotional train wreck.

Sometimes she'll eye, eerily, the house with the red roof, and she'll wonder what the bird inside is thinking right now. Doing so, Lyla stuffs her hair into her hair bands while turning, glancing and staring at the home. There's a new and considerably large hole, circle-sized, by his wall by the apple tree. No window. Big gap. Looks cold...

"Hey! Lyla, can you at least look at me for five seconds before shouldering around the place?" Her gaze snaps back at him and stays there a little too cheerily. She's got her hands in her skirt pockets: this one's modest and big, just past her knees, a soft beige. Her shirt's wrinkled but spotty with flowers if that makes up for it. No shoes. Half a sock—bunched up around her leg. Camofrog in contrast stares boldly with his slick tank top and silvery chain necklace, not to mention those black jeans. He's fierce today.

He is way more ready than she.

The throaty voice clears. "I live nearby. Freya's out... I dunno, gardening or something, and Jay's just over by that beach." A webbed hand paws over to where he mentioned. "We're easily in seeing view of each other, so it's all good. So long as we don't—say— _run off into the mist_."

She giggles awkwardly.

"Did you see the hole in Lucha's house? Like... I think he's... changed or something."

"Hmm? Oh." The frog does turn then. "Hey, yeah, you're right. What's with that hole? I feel like there was something there earlier... gosh, I'm turning into you."

He bumps her shoulder and their initial tension loses itself with the morning dew and the mist, all the stuff that's gone by midday.

Camofrog turns back to his friend. "Now what I was trying to tell you is that I made a promise. I said we'd go exploring and I'd show you the ropes of the town, and I mean it. I keep my promises. Now, where would you like to go first? Name a person or name a place and we're off. Faster than Jay can run. Pinky swear. Scout's honor." He laughs and she smirks.

"Hmmm... really? Well that's real kind'f ya... hmm." Lyla's eyes go to the sky. There's clouds like cotton candy roaming about up there; it's too thick and too soupy to see much other than little sun ribbons. Then again, she hasn't seen really any sky the whole time she's been here. "Oh! Let's go to that place with all the cobblestone and the tree! The tree that was—that was big! That was a cool place. I wanna know more about that."

Her froggy friend winces.

"Um. Sure. If you'd like, oh why not!"

Lyla smiles back toward him, all bright and sunshine before stepping back and bumping into the door. "Oh. Gosh. That's right. Isabelle will die or something if I don't tell her where I'm going." She disappears back inside.

Snort. "And I have _no_ idea why that may be..." Camofrog's murky eyes round about their little area in front of the town hall: the houses all lined up together, Fauna's toward the end, the sparkling river, the voices and sound each villager makes going along their way. Jay's humming and catchphrase falling, multiple times, into the sand. Freya's music that plays louder than her headphones can handle. It's a little quieter now. The electric murmur of a net they always fell back to, one near constantly playing from beneath the black house with the red roof—it's quiet.

He wonders then how long it might stay that way, glances helplessly at the cloudy sky above. Grimaces. If anything it's getting worse...

Once they're finally out the door and the dog they leave behind won't start sobbing from lack of Lyla, the two manage their venture outward. Lyla forgot about her sock and her shoes so she's gone and filthied her one in mud and all kinds of fun surprises. The frog by her side, barefoot so long as he can, finds satisfaction in the squishing of the murkiness—without surprises—beneath him. Below him. It makes its sounds because of him but it stays there, day and night, only to be mucked up some more in the morning. Funny.

He glances up again at the sky. A little wary. Holding his breath some. Only there's... no change. So he goes on.

If she'd notice, maybe she would've worried for his constant state. His looking up, back down, mumbling words over his camouflaged mouth without the sound. But she doesn't see it and even if she did she wouldn't think enough to think much of it. They go on to the further left, past the train station and down the bridge, off onto cool cobblestone, strangely slick and without mud. Yet.

That stupid sock of Lyla's has tracked single footprints all across its glory. Like a fancy marble flooring in a fancy marble mansion, its shining, silky smoothness now has those stupid sock prints, the ones with the freaking flowers like her shirt and those stripes, now it's everywhere. He nearly laughs but instead glances at the monstrous huge tree, and glances at the lead-gray sky now misting over, and he sighs. Maybe they should go back. Lyla's not the biggest friend of the rain and she's certainly not dressed for it... He looks back at the sock prints and grimaces again.

Even so, he takes his webbed foot backwards and of course a great yellow ball of fluffy orangeish cotton comes strolling in. Brown skin and a bright, freckled face. Golden hooves, curly fur, big smile.

Camofrog sighs.

The rescue team is more or less here.

Lyla slips in the water, falls, and wipes at her scraped knee. Then she catches whiff of the sheep. "Whoa, sup! Frita, hi, what're you doing here!"

He glances back up at the storm so ready to fall and runs his webbed hands below his eyes.

Frita's too stubborn. She's got a picnic basket wound by one arm; she's dressed rather finely in a small dress that hugs her furry self the right way and sparkles when she walks. Even heels. Why is she wearing heels? Why? It's about to rain, you dolt! Why heels! Only Camofrog doesn't ask these questions; he's sort of lost his nerve.

"Yeah. Hey, Lyla! Yo, Camofrog!" Her deep, southern accent only brings Lyla more in, asking questions about her life story and dumb junk like that. And before Camofrog can whisk her away, out comes Frita's sandwiches—and look, what do you know, she made extra! Who woulda thunk! It's not like she _always_ does that!

The frog grumbles through his peanut butter and jelly. He's hungry, though, so he manages it, eyes on the sky and waiting, worried. Still the rain doesn't fall and the girls gab as long as they freaking need to. He has nieces. Three sisters. Knows they'll take their sweet time. When Lyla shifts, his eyes go straight for the monster of a tree in the middle of their Plaza, but she never questions it, only looks back. Asks Frita hey, how many siblings do you have? Actually Frita's an only child. Whatever...

At least Frita's keeping her brain going. With those wheels turning in the other direction, then she won't ask about...

He winces, glancing at the now-mucky cobblestone. At the tree. At the fog obscuring the majority of its long, long, long branches and thick, thick, thick trunk. A never-ending lifeline that only knows how to consume and prosper more. Ulgh. He doesn't go for any of the offered apples Frita picked up on the way here.

Mistakes were made today. But it looks like they're okay.

Miraculously it's not raining by the time they pick up and say their farewells. Lyla's head is still turning the wrong way after Frita's stories; all she can say to her froggy friend is either repeats of Frita's own stories or questions and comments about the sheep herself. It's sort of driving him nuts, so he's a little more curt than he should be around her. Er. Oops.

It doesn't all start to dawn on him until he's been left at the Town Hall, she safely inside again and the chill in the air nipping at his skin.

Camofrog takes one step back from the entrance and the heavens break loose: thunder, lightning, rain, the like.

He laughs softly at himself: at the world in general.


	12. Sometimes We'll Play

Sometimes We'll Play

Heeding Camofrog's great camo advice—it's a skill of his that can only be worded with his name and said talent—Lyla brushes her hair into her buns, daring them silently to go frizzy on her again, and charges out the door.

Then stumbles back in because she forgot shoes. Isabelle's retreated into herself some. So, they have this living area downstairs in the back of the Town Hall—an entire back room sort of like a secret superhero's cave. Isabelle didn't like the sound of that. But anyways the fluffy doggy's been residing there by the kitchen table and the fireplace, with her tea, fuzzy slippers, and her novels. Lyla feels like it's her fault but the thing's too sweet to say much. She tosses a goodbye over her shoulder, pulls on her shoes, and out the door she goes.

Earlier she ruined her sock. Didn't realize it until she came tromping in like a monotonous elephant and Isabelle screamed at the trail of mud. That's... that's okay. She'll live with it. Anyways, camo advice, activate!

Freya's not around. Didn't she have, like, something to do with a shopping district in another town? That being as Wherford has no shopping districts or any of its ilk. Maybe she had to take some clothes to the washer's—yeah, yeah, that was it. Curlos might have a washing and dryer machine in his home, but Lyla doesn't think the others have one... or maybe she went to Curlos's house? She's never seen anyone really _leave_ Wherford...

Camo's not around either. But! But... She swears she saw Jay jogging about somewhere, and... he was talking to someone on his doorstep—Lucha... Lucha...

When she passes by his red-roofed house, she does stop by the hole in the wall, the one by the apple tree where something used to be, and she does wave. It's kind of dark and murky in there so she can't see, but it's a good feeling in her heart, like maybe he waved back.

Then she goes on. Cuz she has a plan and that camo advice is gonna get her there.

Clouds mucking about in the sky suggest more rain. Lyla wonders, then, since all the times it's been thundering and she's been around, it seems Fauna was either holed up indoors or with Freya. Very... against the weather? Aw, maybe the thunder scares her. Lyla's no judge; when she was younger, thunder used to scare her too. Course, not at _this_ age. She thinks. Hopes. Hah. Hahah.

Her cheery rain boots go _plurp plurp plurp_ as she marches through the atmosphere. Bits of grass and fun little insects skitter across these shiny, rubbery covers; it makes her a little sick seeing all that congested earth on her shoes. Isabelle would probably die or something if _she_ saw it. Well. If she hadn't lived here for however many years. Heck. How long _have_ these villagers been around? Camofrog or someone said it'd been at least a couple for most everyone, so Lyla was by far out of place and new, but... still. How long... has it been? Do they know?

Eyes in the sky: nope, still the clouds overhang. Dang. It's like they're hiding something from her. Oh, that's exciting! What if they are! Man, that's a _fun_ thought! Now that she thinks about it, Camofrog kept looking somewhere whenever they were going to that place he called the Plaza. Where was it he looked again? She can't freaking remember. Eh.

Finally she stands in front of the home. Hurriedly, staring at those boots of hers, she tucks them off her feet and stands, proudly, upon the doormat in her bunny socks. She's been in worse situations. Wait. Where's Fau—ohhhh, oh right, she has to knock first.

Big breath. Hesitation claims her pale arms. Another big breath. Pause. _Pon. Pon pon pon._ Another breath, very focused, like this is the most important thing she'll ever do in her life.

And her fist nearly goes through a little doe's head. "Yeeep! Fauna! Sorry! That could've been bad!" Lyla pulls back her stubborn pale hand and manages to hit the poor thing's head in the process.

It's so weird being taller than someone. It's probably just Fauna and, like, Camofrog and Nibbles that are shorter—but it's just so weird! Unnatural! Lyla blinks, glances back at the doe. Shyly. Very bashful suddenly.

Little Fauna, hot chocolate eyes and all, peeps back at the stuttering girl. She's in this lovely yellow dress today escorted on the side with ribbons. They're huge. Oh gosh, Fauna, why are you so amazing at being adorable? It just takes one dress and... and...

"Umm... Lyla? Lyla? E-Eh! Lyla! A-Are you there?"

One goldenrod hoof waves in Lyla's faraway gaze.

"Hn-Hnn? Ye-Yeah! Yeah! Hi! Hi, Fauna... um." Bashfully, blinking, a hand goes to her hair bun and very nearly starts twirling fingers through it. "I just... uhhh... I wanted—I wanted to know if you'd like to hang out or something to-today? If... if that's okay! Can we! Um! Please! I'm sorry I'm so awkward!" Ahh, that could've gone better. Smiling a little on the wide side, Lyla very nearly shoves her hands in her face like an idiot.

A telltale murmur of thunder rises along the breeze. Fauna bristles a bit. Her spotty, cute appearance huddles off into a cry of protection for the innocent beauty.

Lyla doesn't really get it and blinks.

"U-Umm... Ye-Yeah, sure. You can come on right in!" A sweet smile replaces the doe's slight tension. "It would be just wonderful to have you in!" Voice soft but cheery, Fauna skips back into her home. The door crooks open and a lamp's light streams out, all warm and inviting. "I'll make some tea as you settle, okay?" Another cheery smile and she turns in again.

Wow. That was weird. Softly the girl giggles to herself before following Fauna. Her socks digress when it comes to that wooden floor, but still, Fauna's home is... nice. Small, but not cramped. Sparse, but not barren. Warm, but not stifling. The perfect retreat for a little rain.

By the corner's tucked a bookshelf, alongside some chairs, a table, and then an open book on said table. There's a couple carpets loitering around on the floor—Lyla keeps her feet in that area. Some flowers in pots hang around in the windows; a small kitchen-ish area intrigues her; there is a closet; and... that's about it. Oh. And the bed. Oh right. Shoved off in the corner like it doesn't matter... now why would that be?

As the teapot by the kitchen chimes and Fauna brings out some real swanky mugs, Lyla situates herself. She's all excited now. Man. Fauna's pretty nice. And her soft, chirping voice is sweet, and she's really sweet and that dress is precious. And she reads, like Isabelle. Only she looks... a little more lightheaded than the dog in question. Less... teetering. Stable. Or at least softer.

"Heeey, what's that you're reading?" Without so much as another word Lyla's hand goes and pulls the book out from on top of the table. "Oohh... 'Jasper's Storytelling, Book Eight.' I've heard of that one! Pff, well, I guess everyone has."

She ensconces to her place, scanning over some of the pages. No, not really caring that this is the eighth title and she's only read up to the second. "I didn't know it got this far... hm. And it says in the back there's still another book after it... my gosh. How does the writer do it?"

Fauna sets the steaming mugs on the table. She looks a little uncomfortable, but not a bad uncomfortable. More like there-goes-the-page-I-was-on. Still a worn smile accompanies her grin, so she's not that bad off or anything.

Lyla fumbles for a little while about how she thinks the plot for the series went, then hands back the novel—it's thick, she notes, like at least a few hundred pages around. A soft giggle and the doe begins flipping again through words and words. "Hmm... yes. It is a very well-known series. I always liked the protagonist because she constantly stuck up for others. Kind, but with a very... heh. A very protective soul... and she never let her so dearest friend go!"

"Hmm? Yeah," the other murmurs, "I remember there being some sorta friend in the books, but I don't think she was that built on... Although—I really liked this one scene where protagonist girl like verbally beat the snot out of a guy who was... he was like... He was like Jay, yeah!" It was a weird story, now that she thinks about it. Jasper was, well, the storyteller, but he was a dude who talked about this girl protagonist... the protagonist and friend do act like people she knows... hmm... who was it... she swears there's a connection somewhere.

Fauna giggles again but otherwise doesn't respond to the Jay comment. Forgetful, Lyla shrugs and they go on. Man, Fauna knows a lot about books! She like... it's like this is her book fortress and she is the book queen. But she also cooks well. Bakes well. Whatever it is that makes brownies, because Lyla can smell them in the oven. Sweet and overpowering...

Smiling, the doe asks her about another famous book series, only Lyla hasn't read that one, so they have to piece together a lot of different trivia before she recognizes another they both know. Lyla reads but... she doesn't read that much. It's... it's fun sometimes. But, like, books are _expensive._ When she was on the train, she was busy trying to get money to buy, like, _fruit._ Food. Life necessities. Books, they were so expensive they weren't even in her dreams, they were that far out of her reach. But that's okay. Stories told with the mouth and not with the pen, those are fun, too.

The boy on the train seemed like he had a good one. Waiting... waiting for the day where he can tell it.

The day grows late and the thunder sounds... less thunder-y, so Lyla leaves the humble abode with a smile on her lips and a hot brownie in her mouth. As her steps recede into a growing darkness, all she can think about is sweet and overpowering... too innocent to be hurt... and protection.

She makes it back to Isabelle's without so much as a scratch.


	13. In Tulips Out by the Forest

In Tulips Out by the Forest

"Hoo-kay! Lyla, Nibbles. Nibbles, Lyla. New friend; girlfriend. Got it? Got it. I promised and I plan to deliver. Now anyways, Nibbles, what town was the best for the shopping district again?"

Camofrog, smug little grin on his face, hands in his pockets, stands proudly by a turquoise-colored squirrel. Freckles dust her cheeks and a big smile captures her face. She even has these weird, blonde highlights in her hair that brushes over her eyes. Big eyes. She seems real chipper. What was it Camofrog said about her? Oh, oh right. She got along well with others or something? Yeah, yeah. Liked meeting new people. Well then. Fun! Lyla is new people!

Said squirrel snorts and rolls her eyes. "Like, Camofrog! How many times have I told you that there is no 'best' shopping district because everything's all split up! The realtor and some of the others are in one town; clothing's in another..." Another snort. "You're not listeninnnnng..."

That high-pitched voice surprised Lyla a little for some reason. Maybe because it was really, really high-pitched. Like. Really high-pitched. She cautiously rubs at one ear while glancing back around their little seat on the train. Once again she's cornered into that awkward position of knowing nothing.

"Well then! We should probably choose soon... the train's starting to get a little far from home... uhhh, what's the next stop, Nibbles?"

She sighs. That's high-pitched, too. "I've told you however many times, we have like _three_ nearby towns, Camo! Hah... you always forget them."

"Yeah, yeah... uh. Sorry. Go on."

Nibbles rolls her long eyes and those great lashes of hers just flutter. Lyla, awkwardly silent, kicks at the ground. "There's three towns, Camo. You should guess! Yeah! Guessing games are fun, fun, fun!"

"Nibby please not now just tell me the toowwnn," he mumbles, eyes rolling for the ceiling. Nibbles giggles again.

"Oh, fine! Have it your way. It was Butterfly!"

The frog nearly chokes. "What kind of idiot names their town _Butterfly_?"

"A really cool idiot! Geeeez! And how long have you known the place—idiot! Ha ha!"

"Lyla, do you hear this mess? _Butterfly_? What, are we all just insects or something? Are we actually Grasshopper or... or... or Locust? Yeah, I bet we're all just freakin' locu—"

"YEEEEK! THE TRAIN'S ABOUT TO STOP! GET UP GET UP GET UP!"

The rustling and squeaking and pulling draws Lyla back toward the train entrance. Her head hurts. This really dumb smile is plastered on her face as she wanders her way past the driver dude, and off she goes into the majestic little town of Butterfly. Hoo, joy. Where's a bench... if this town has benches... she needs to sit down a little longer.

There's a cute little cobblestone trail that does lead off into a yellow plastic savior; Lyla plops herself down immediately. Her hands go to her dress—the one almost too short—the one Isabelle complained about her putting back on—but hey, she likes this dress! And so its white creases go folded over her body. A great sigh, and her head she pushes into the bench's edge. She waits quietly for the loud couple. Camofrog lost his ticket or something under the seat.

Waiting, kinda bored now, aquamarine orbs peer up to the sky here. This one's overflowing with bright, happy clouds, and there's pieces of sky shifting through. It's got no secrets to hide. Just bright blue and fluffy condensation in the air. Oh... and butterflies. Wow, that's a lot of rainbow insect wings. Pff. That's why they call it Butterfly. Now it's kind of a really good name.

Lyla holds herself as still as she can manage, waiting for something else, very very excited. Her round nose perched upward, breaths nearly held in, eyes wide: come on, come on, come on... tiny insect legs, narrow black body... She can just see the tips of big green wings descending toward its to-be seat... almost... almo—

"... _is_ where you've been getting your gardening junk! Yes, this is that town! This is where the gardening shop and everything is! My gosh, Camofrog!"

A throaty grumble replies, low, "Okay, whatever, you were right, but what the heck else is here, anyways? It's too... too bright. Oh I hate it. I'm like half-blinded by all that color."

Snort. "Said the frog with more color on him than me. Okay, then, Camo."

Lyla laughs to herself and the butterfly goes sailing away. So close, yet so far: that fraction of air separating them... eh. Camo and Nibby are a funny couple. Like those old married ones who bicker... yeah...

"Come on, Camo, let's go get you a new watering can."

"It's not my fault Frita stepped on it!"

"Geez, I didn't say it was your fault! I just said we need to get you a new one!" Nibbles, glaring hotly at her boyfriend, hardly notices when they pass by the girl sprawled on her bench. "Oh. Lyla. Hi, Lyla! Come on, let's go get Camo a new watering can! While we're at it... hmmm... what else was in this town... oh—oh! Right. There's a museum... and a coffee shop... and... what was it... an observatory? We can go check those things out some!"

Mumbling about all kinds of things and a whole lot of nothing, the curly-haired brunette follows. She doesn't only have one sock on this time: no, she forgot footwear this time. Nibbles herself has dressed in some really weird sandals with zebra-stripe straps all across her turquoise toes. Not to mention the belt—studded in sequins and halfway-falling off her small hips. She's in a tank top and jeans not unlike her dear Camo's, only these have flower patches.

The thought of a certain boyfriend with such pants is a funny one. But she's sure he'd rather let Lyla run loose again before putting them on. Aw.

Her to-her-chest-height friends she so enjoys—for more than a change in tallness—make their way up past the cobblestone sidewalk, and Lyla hurriedly follows. There's some rainbow colored houses full of rainbow villagers with rainbow personalities—all except for this weird goth rhino—and then there's the little area of shops and the like bustling with other villagers in the center. Pastel-colored bricks lead over a moat-like river to said place: here waits the lovely museum in brown coloring and the coffee shop near the front of it, as well as the gardening center off to the side.

Smirking, Nibbles has to remind her boyfriend the names of the people working. Brewster... Blathers—Celeste... Leif. It sort of flies over Lyla's head. She's not sure if that's how it's supposed to work—but Lyla _swears_ she gets this... this feeling of... something like Isabelle from the sloth in the gardening center... well. Either way, he's not like Camofrog and he's not like Nibbles, and he's certainly not like Lyla.

Only then they ask him for watering cans; it turns out they've just sold out.

Camofrog leaves in a grumbling hurry, pushing past the two girls. Lyla glances awkwardly at his girlfriend who shrugs and again smirks back at him.

"We all have our bad days. He's just a little more loud about them, eh..."


	14. Only We've Ceased Now

Only We've Ceased Now

It takes Lyla a few minutes to recover when she only woke up that time frame ago. She's sitting there, feeling shriveled like some old person as one of her friends—she's not even sure who—towers over her and barks words that completely miss her. Isabelle's sitting beside her, laughing a little awkwardly into the whipped cream on her hot chocolate, because she's been in this situation before and knows when to just give up and give in.

But miss pinky doesn't. Not yet, anyways. "Lyla! Are you even listening to me! I said, we're going to Marsh and getting you a realtor because you can't live here forever!"

The pale human in question still has yet to hear a word Freya says: whether she shouts it or screams. Unfortunately Isabelle isn't so lucky.

"Ye-Yeeeeeeeeek! Fre-Fre-Fre-Freeyyaaaa, please watch your wooorddds! You're scaaryyyy!"

"Are you just not listening to me because you're bone-dry on cash! I mean, we all share our hecking money anyways! It's not like we need all of it... hmmmmph. Isabelle, why is she so... spacey?" Freya snorts. "No. Never mind. Lyla's always spacey. She's just more spacey when she wakes up. I guess. Well I don't blame her; I myself only woke up two hours ago," her murmur suggesting that she's still tired too.

Isabelle blinks. "Um. Correct me if... I'm... wrong, but..." Her fluffy yellow head swivels toward the clock above the fireplace. "Wasn't it six in the morning two... two hours ago?" Splutter, splutter, blush.

The wolf snorts, retorts, "Well, yeah. When else do you think Fauna wakes up? I try my best to get up with her so she won't have to be alone... you know. I worry sometimes. Poor thing...

"Hey, wait! We are _not_ getting off track of conversation! Lyla, we are going to Marsh. Now."

"E-Ehhh..." Isabelle blushes. "May-May-Maybe she's a bit of a... of a, well, herself, s-s-sometimes, but what if... what if I like having her here, Freya? I-I-I really like having Lyla as my roommate... it's fu-fu-fun..." She looks away.

Freya shrugs. "I don't think you'll want her here when Digby shows up out of nowhere for a week and learns that some human's started sleeping in his bed, right?"

Turning back, the dog pouts. Her eyes are a little dark, glancing at her friend and thinking of the chair without her in it. "Hnnn... but she's... but I... but... but she's! But she's helping me! She's... she's! Freyaaaaaa! I _need_ Lyla heeeeereee!" Thus the bawling begins.

"Auhh!" Her pink friend splutters, "Isabelle! You don't need to cry! Lyla can visit you all she wants; it's not like she's going to live on the other side of the planet!"

"Yes I am," mumbles the sleepy girl.

Freya glares back at her. "WHY ARE YOU SO STUPID!" She turns around, then, leaving her back vulnerable to the other girls. Only she has no worries; there's a falcon skull on said back of said jacket, so she's sure if anything it'll freak them out. Maybe wake up Lyla. That would be absolutely wonderful. The punk sighs.

The poor thing just bawls even harder at the sound of Lyla's idiocy. There it is: the goof in action. Camofrog told her all about what happened with the whole runaway-meets-Lucha thing. Sure, Lucha's turned over a new leaf—miraculously—but... but Lyla's an idiot. That's all there is to it.

And Freya's annoyed. She checks out the glass of the window in the back and sighs at the sight of misty, almost-existent clouds. Not quite there. Still in the clear. She wants to hurt that stupid frog for taking Lyla out to another town; maybe the conditions were like this... but... still.

She bites her lip, takes a deep breath, and turns back to the monstrosity in front of her.

Lyla, more awake now, is the first one to make any new sound. "Wait. How do you guys even make the money for the house..? I mean... there's no real business thingies here except for the hall t—Town Hall. And all Butterfly had was, like, the garden place and a donation museum and a coffee shop. Where does... where does all that money come from in the first place? Does it come from the sky?"

Her eyes widen. Freya stifles a retort. "No. It does _not_ come from the sky." She rolls her eyes. "Kill us for the economy, but it runs on insects and fish. A lot of it's for diet. Obviously. We all know insects pack a punch when it comes to protein. And there are those people who... keep them as... uh... pets, right. Curlos has one." Another eyeroll. "Now get up." Reluctantly the pale girl does so. She's more or less dressed. "Put on your shoes over your socked feet and we are going to Marsh. Right now." For more reason than one, she silently adds to herself.

Another glance to the sky, a sigh, and once Lyla's out the door and into the misty morning air she nigh drags that dolt to the train station. Under her breath she mumbles, "House, we are getting you a house..." checking her pockets for the bit of money they'll need for the loan. Nook's a pretty reasonable dude. He'll probably be nice about it.

They load the train, enter, and settle. Well. Not everyone settles.

"If it doesn't come from the sky, then why are you always looking at it?" Lyla kicks her feet from under the train's little table; Freya tells her to stop it; she doesn't stop it: not yet. "I think someone else looked at it a lot too... hmmm... I can't remember who now..."

Of course you can't remember who. The pink wolf murmurs, soft and sleek like her guitar, stuffing her paws into her jacket's pockets, "I look at the sky because the clouds talk to us." Her thick, yellow orbs narrow. The mascara looks almost deadly on those lashes. "No. They aren't verbal speakers, and they certainly aren't deaf. No sign language. They speak like nature." Blink. "No more questioning me. We'll be there soon."

Lyla considers asking the wolf, even with the embargo, why she's so pushy all of a sudden... Maybe she woke up bad or something. Lyla doesn't think she did _that_ much to annoy her... maybe it's something else entirely. Hm. Magic, maybe.

Aquamarine eyes squint of of their corners; Freya's had yet to smile today. She looked like a smiler when they first met. Maybe not a happy-happy-sunshine-sparkles smiler, but a smiler still indeed. Well she's not smiling now.

Whence they push themselves off the train, Lyla following dutifully behind the grumpy wolf, the little town in front of them just after their old train station: it all opens up. It's bright and airy and the ground is mucky but the sight is clean. The air... it's... it's... _easy_ to breathe here. If that makes much sense.

She grasps Freya's paw and tugs at it. "I like it here."

"Uh-huh," she murmurs, "we all do." Her gaze gets a little sad, head tilted a little down. "We all like it here." There's a slight smile on her lip this time around.

They walk side by side into the flowers and fresh air. Farther to the left there's a long, angular river snaking its way across. It doesn't touch much to their side toward the right, but on the edge, just before the beach—and they're right on the beach—like no elevation central—that's where all the houses are.

Not freakishly bright and rainbow like Butterfly; nothing so quiet and wet like Wherford. It's Marsh's style and Lyla flocks to it.

"Hm. We might as well stop by and say hello while we're here. But we're only going to one house, okay? Then we have to get to the realtor and go back home." Freya is very serious about leaving soon after going. It's like an unspoken rule...

Lyla remembers another rule, then... Her fingers hold fast to the wolf's pads.

"Freya? Why is the air so light and happy here?"

She smiles little more in response without answer.

Freya leads the pale girl toward a home that's more tilted toward the middle of the land instead of nestled into the sand. It's a warm brown, like Fauna's, only structurally sculpted with both a masculine tint and a more powerful-looking infrastructure: imposing and a... a little elegant, too. A good imposing. A great elegant. Lyla holds her breath when Freya knocks on the door and a broad voice allows them in.

It's a bear. Brown bear, bushy eyebrows, dressed in a comfortable-looking suit. She didn't know they made comfortable-looking suits. And the bow inside of it is just astounding. Here is kind of like the perfect home of a teddy bear: surrounded by books, a great desk in the midst of it. His house has another room, too, which he calls his bedroom. In fact, fun fact, his name is Teddy.

And he's got a friend over. Lyla says the word friend loosely because they look pretty close to be friends. The friend, though... she's like Nibbles, only calmer, more smiling and cheerful. She's dressed in all tie-dye, with a tee and then her jeans are stained with paint. A bird—yellow canary? A bird. Oh. A bird. A bird, oh her goodness, she loves birds. Twiggy, her name's Twiggy, and very quickly she and Lyla are acquainted.

That is until Freya so kindly raises her voice. "We should be going soon. Excuse Lyla, she's new and... clingy at this time. Sorry to stay for so short, but we need to get to the realtor and get this dolt a house." Still she chuckles on her way toward the door.

"Hm! That's a shame." There's wisdom in the bear's eyes, though: something Lyla can't quite understand. Freya probably does, cuz she's, like, Freya. "You'll have to come again sometime soon, ya hear?"

Twiggy giggles. "Yes! That would be soooo fun! We'll have to hang out again soon! Eheheh..."

Lyla really really really really _really_ wants to be friends with Twiggy.

Freya has to drag her the majority of the way to the fancy realtor guy's place. What was his name? Nuk? Mister Nuk? No, there's something wrong with that. But then on the way across the long river and toward said realtor, she nearly runs into a penguin, and then nearly runs into these two female eagles—and eagles and penguins are all birds in Lyla's eyes—so Freya has to drag a little harder.

What's one more idiot?

Glancing up, mumbling to herself, Lyla's not really that bad. Maybe she is stupid, and she can't remember things to save her life, but she's helpful, and she's bold, and she doesn't mind that she ended up in a dreary old town like Wherford. One where a cloudy day never ceases to end...

If anything, she'd probably be better off in Marsh, Butterfly... but she doesn't know the newbie that well. For all she knows, Lyla is secretly a little snot and she deserves eternal pur—

Realtor. Where is he?

Oh, over there near the corner. There's the fabrics shop nearby, too, with the kind porcupine ladies who run it. They're sisters, aren't they? Freya shifts with the bells in her back pocket; her eyes wend across the wetlands and search, worriedly, for something, anything. Then she glances back at the stumbling, short Lyla.

She likes Lyla. Lyla's a weird one, for sure, but maybe that's what they need. Someone like her. There certainly aren't many people like Lyla in the world. Honestly it's a surprise she made it out of her parents' house, into the life of a loner, and lived for another four years. To Freya, it's a surprise... Sighing. "Come on, Lyla, let's keep going."

"Can I meet the villagers here later?"

"Yes, of course. Just not this visit. We need to finish up and leave soon."

"Oh... okay. I really, really like it here, Freya."

"I know, Lyla." Again that soft, sober smile reaches for her lips. "We all do."

She does like Lyla. Hopes, very silently, that she's not a snot in disguise. Although, looking at what occurred with Lucha... maybe she should raise her hopes some... nah...

By the time they've reached the snug little home with the sign "Realtor" punched in front of it, and the little dingly bell rings as they enter, the man in front of the desk toward the back starts. He recognizes, quite quickly, the wolf in front of him. His voice is deep. Not too shaky. "Hmm? Freya, what is it? I thought everyone in Wherford was... _more_ than satisfied with their homes at this time..."

Lyla tugs on her friend's paw again. She's behind her; the door's a little small for two people to enter at once. Her aquamarine orbs can look out and glimpse at the snug chamber, the door that must lead to a bedroom or something upstairs, the signs and the colors—and the weird, gold coins stuffed into an overflowing pouch near the back. She asks Freya what the big coins are for and Freya tells her to shush.

"Well, you see, Nook, I know what I said, but as unexpected as it is..." She halts when those eyes of his get a bit shiny, a bit wide. "Er. Is there anything wrong with an unexpected new villager in our town?" A bite at her lip. "She wanted to live with Isabelle, but, well, you know. She needs a house of her own, obviously. Wouldn't you agree?" And wait. What's going on with that stare of his?

"Yes. Erh. I suppose there's nothing wrong with someone else in your little town. My apologies; it caught me rather by surprise." He clears his throat, watches as Freya steps in and the pale girl with the thick, chestnut curls quite frizzing at the hair bands by now enters. Even with Isabelle's attempts, she's still a little grimy and still a little worn.

"Excuse my presumption," murmurs the older tanuki—thick, old voice rattling, "but might your name be Lyla?"

She blinks. "Hmm? Oh yeah. Hi. That's me." Doesn't question it. Because of her laxity, Freya doesn't question it, either. She has enough to worry about as it is... oh, why aren't there any high windows in this room...

Freya quickly pulls out the bells she brought and places their tiny, tinkling selves onto the desk. "I know it's a bit much to ask of you, but Lyla really needs a house." Nook nods, understanding the urgency. "You might have to rush this one a little... umm... I'll bring more bells later if you need any of it. But if this works, that's fine as well. Only..." She turns back and eyes the spacey girl. She's lost track of conversation again. Oh, great; she's thankful for once for these flaws of hers.

"It's just..." Freya leans in closer. "A friend of someone we know well sort of brought her... And then the Isabelle complication... not to mention a whole lot of other things I _really_ don't have the _time_ to tell you, certainly not after we've been here so long already... You understand, don't you?"

Nook nods, accepts the money. "Yes, I understand what's going on. I'll do my best, but it may still take a few days... well, my stock has gone back up again, so I can work a little longer this time." Without mentioning it, he draws her attention to the pouch with the coins. Freya nods slowly.

Soon after some other arrangements are made that Lyla also doesn't notice, let alone comprehend, out the door they go. She's faster this time, dragging Lyla much more than she was prior. Hoping, please, don't make her carry that dolt to the train. They should leave soon. Very soon. Yes. If there's any hope of coming back even tomorrow or the day after...

 _Dnk!_

"Gahh!" Freya scowls. "Chris, why are you right there! Yes! Whatever! _See_ the other human, she's a girl, you're not a girl, whatever! We need to go! Now! See you later! Bye!" And off again.

The boy in question causes Lyla's head to turn back. And—whoa—he is a human! Lo and behold indeed! Angular, exotic green eyes, short brown hair with bits of green dyed into the edges, casual but well-fitting tee and shorts, big smile. She waves excitedly and he waves back, smiling without a sound.

"Why didn't he say anything?"

"Because he _is_ in fact mute _come on Lyla we're leaving._ "

With what may have been seconds or minutes to spare, the pink wolf shoves them into the train station and the next available train, which she has them take, in a hurry, back to Wherford. As far as Lyla can tell, there's nothing that was causing the rush: nice villagers, no scary monsters chasing her—man, that place had much cleaner air than Wherford. But Freya's wise or something so Lyla better listen.


	15. With Fear in our Hearts

With Fear in our Hearts

"Freya said it's okay, I promise! She's even coming with us! Yeah...

Her yell is quiet, because she is quiet, but still the energy is thick an heavy.

"She and Fauna, and now you gotta come too! What—well—yes. I _did_ ask Lucha first, but he didn't answer. Now that I think about it, he might've been asleep... but either way, I was gonna ask you, too! Freya said you should come with us. So please come. You should come."

"E-Ehhh... I-I don't know if you'd want _me_ to come along..."

"Oh, it'll be fun. You should come. Come on. You should come."

"But!"

Lyla smirks. "But what? You should come."

"Fi-FI-FINE! I WILL!" Spluttering, blue wings cover a blushing face. The bird groans. "I... will."

And in response the girl just smiles. "Yaaaayyyyyyyyyyy!" She twirls around happily and grabs one of Jay's wings, pulling him back with her. "Come on come on come on! They're all waiting at the train station! Let's gooo!"

The plan had been Jay, Lucha, Lyla, Fauna, and Freya—well, until Lucha didn't show. He might be tired or something. Lyla did consider climbing into his dimly-lit house—through the hole in the wall—to check on him, but that would be rude, and she's trying not to be rude to her new neighbors, so she didn't.

Fauna wanted to go; Freya wanted to bring her; and Freya thought it'd be a good idea to force Jay to come with. Lyla wanted Lucha to join them, and since Freya was getting two others as it was, she let her. Only then Lucha was asleep or whatever. Darn Lucha.

She doesn't come to the conclusion to question why his door was locked when she tried to turn it—like an idiot, whatever, sure. Or why the room was dark in the first place. Or if there's a reason he wasn't there to answer her calling...

As the two wander off to join the girls, Lyla glances toward the sky. No, she's not... trying to be like Freya... sh-shut up... "You can almost see the sky through the clouds... whoa. That's weird."

"Eh? Yeah, I guess it is a little weird... I'm used to wearing my wetsuit while jo—" Jay pauses. "Ahhh! Going on this trip means I'll miss my afternoon cardio!" He squawks and squawks and glances hopelessly back at his blue-roofed home. "Maybe I shouldn't go," he mumbles. His near singsong voice trembles.

"Um. You should come." And Lyla keeps going without stopping; numbly, the bird follows.

She wonders if this time away from Isabelle is a good thing. It's Freya's fault, sure, and that Digby guy's—wasn't he Isabelle's brother or something?—but that doesn't mean she feels any better about having to leave, get her own house. Feels... kinda bad. A little sad. It's... fun... living with a roommate.

Jay and Fauna exchange the strangest of looks whence they're all together. Giggling, Lyla sidles up to the doe. "Lucha was asleep, I think, but I found Jay. So we'll have fun today..!"

"Heheh. I'm sure we will!" Happily Fauna links one arm with Lyla and the two giggle, the perfect facsimile of schoolchildren. "It'll be so very nice to see Amelia and Celia again!" Her smile's so big and so sweet, it just overwhelms Lyla. But it's a good kind of overwhelming.

Wait. "Are... they... by chance... the eagles?"

"Hm? Yeah, they are! Heheheh... maybe you saw them once last time? They're a little bit like Freya and me... a-a little bit." Freya, smiling, washes her gaze protectively over her little spotted friend. When she looks back at Jay, it's like he's a sore toe. The bird awkwardly chuckles. He doesn't wave, just tries to break eye contact as quickly as possible.

This all floats over Lyla's head, of course. She and Fauna step into the train together, and they sit in the same seats together, leaving Freya and Jay to awkwardly squeeze into the one in front of them. It's not that either of them is too large for such a fit: more that they don't have much room for themselves with all that tension. But Freya's rather proud of having Lyla bring him along. He... might enjoy it. As far as she can tell, he's not a snot either. Though he is hiding a painful amount of things in his heart.

As the train reaches its halt in Marsh, the four exit and find themselves within the warm, happy air and the pleasant aura once more. Freya's explained before that everyone's been here at least, like, five times... still with that hesitation in her voice.

"Okay, everyone. The rule still applies here. Maybe it's less dangerous, but surely if we lose each other all kinds of havoc might come of it. Keep in sight of each other. Say... if Fauna sees Lyla walking into one house, she should stay in that general area until Lyla's out, or even unite with her. Whatever. We stay in the same area as one another."

Everyone listens to Freya.

Lyla's trying her hardest not to forget that rule, not again. Not to forget any of the rules... well, if she can manage. Although, that's pretty much the only rule. Stay together. No going off on your own and getting lost.

There's no mist here... but still.

Jay scampers off once he's caught sight of the penguin guy—he's blue like him, only apparently the name is Cube—and Lyla stumbles after the two best friends. They come to a halt at a green-tinged home, soft and melodic, where inside, Fauna says excitedly, lies Celia's chambers. It does turn out that both eagles are within here and exit shortly; Jay's off in the background with that penguin... Lyla itches to go see Twiggy, wants to go find that chipper yellow canary—or maybe the human Chris—but she can't break the rule... oh, no, not this time...

Celia's green-tinged, just like her house; and after her comes a red-tinged eagle, broad and strangely powerful. But a pretty sort of poweful... They're nigh the same size, Celia and Amelia, but one is so soft and the other so strong, and they look like really close friends. Pff. Fauna wasn't kidding.

A balance exists between these two, one that holds them into such a form of tandem that they're easily close friends. Perhaps for the eagles there is more of an even ground, even with the clash of personality—although this as well persists in a fine structure. While these match then with Fauna and Freya—still some other missing ideal remains. And for the life of her, Lyla doesn't know what. But she's used to that.

She loves birds. No, it's not that; she just... she loves birds. The light in their gaze is so refreshing in comparison to the dull of the mist and the fog from her own home. It's funny, when she thinks about it: in a way it might even benefit the villagers of Wherford if she left on her merry way... of course ignoring the fact that Lyla has no resources to live on her own much longer. They wouldn't have to worry about Nook or about her stupidity or... anything...

Freya smiles when she glances back at the pale girl. One paw situated in the pocket of her jagged skirt, the other lying by her side, the great sun orbs of hers glimmer within the mixture of Marsh's atmosphere. And she wonders: man, why can't Wherford be like this? They aren't... they aren't that far away, are they? Like, what?

But she doesn't know... she's... heck, she's stupid... she doesn't know...

Eventually after the birds does follow the chipper little canary. She waddles by with one wing rested against Teddy's scruffy side; the other nearly pushes into her friend's face. Her friend's long, blue face... his sparkling hooves held together... majestic blue hair swirling... pearly horn...

Oh, he's not a horse... he's... Whoa. Well.

Twiggy, excited to see her fast friend again, chirps, "Hey, Lyla! I didn't know you'd come again just the day after—that's super great! This is Teddy's and my friend Julian! He's pretty cool"—the bird winks—"so long as you don't overcrowd him, eh?" Julian, for all of his glimmer and glory, stares back at the newcomer with lip-red blush overflowing his face.

He's shy and quiet but big on smiles—and those smiles make the brunette want to weep. Oh her goodness those smiles are so pristine, so innocent, so perfectly perfect she might just _die_ looking at them. But because she's the clueless ditz she is, lucky for the unicorn, she can't quite convey these feelings into her cloudy, aquamarine gaze.

And suddenly, like a star from a meteor striking the planet of her brain, Lyla slowly blinks. "Freya."

"Oh, dear, what do you want?" The pink wolf chortles. It's a gentle sort of tease.

The brunette shakes her head. "I just... it's just..." Okay. Here we go, she tells herself. "Is there any possible way we can have a sleepover with, like, Twiggy? Stay overnight—just spend that time with them? Is there any possible way? Can we stay over here tonight?"

"Lyla... Ahhh..." Freya's face, while gentle, threatens worry lines across her forehead. "Please don't ask."

"But... but is it... possible?" She catches Twiggy's sparkly gaze and wishes on those eyes of hers like they're stars, Lyla's lucky stars, because by her goodness she loves that bird. She really, really wants to be close friends with that bird...

And so the wolf sighs. "No. Lyla. I'm sorry. No."

Splutter. "E-E-Ehh! But if we can't stay here, can't _she_ come with _us_?" Lyla's bad at dropping things. She's a foolish idiot and she can't let go of this feeble, feeble wish, and all of the pity this wolf has ever felt for a villager of Wherford or any other of their town wells up in Freya's heart. Slowly, slowly the pulley system deep in her soul fishes out wishes that glimmer and die in the light. And she sighs.

"No. They can _not_ come with us. Lyla. Please... they can't." Big breath. "I'm... sorry, tru—"

"Hey guyyyyss!"

Pink fur bristles. "Oh what has that sorry bluejay done."

Out does stroll Jay, happily galumphing by the side of a bear not unlike Teddy—only his size lessens as does his honey-like color. "Yo, Pudge thinks we should bring everyone and, like, have a baseball game! Wouldn't that be great?"

"Shut up Jay this isn't about you." She clamps her maw shut before she can add what she would love to say.

"Wh-What do you mean? I was just saying it'd be fun sometime!"

Yes, you're trying to show us that you're the sport nerd we all know you're most definitely not. Freya groans. "Come on. We're straying a bit. If we leave now, we can come back again soon."

"Hnn..." For the first time in her life, Lyla has seen Jay's first actual emotion flicker across his gaze: a bit of shame, bit of sadness, but the big dark lake around it waddles in calm and weak acceptance.

Fauna strings her arm around Lyla's as they pass by the canary she so adores. Slowly, in ample good-byes and big waves, they make their way back toward the train station.

"Sorry, Freya."

No, Lyla; _I'm_ sorry.

Only she doesn't say these words aloud either.


	16. As We Can't be Here Now

As We Can't be Here Now

"Man, why do I always get stuck with the sheep? I swear, every step I take away from one I just bump into the other." The camouflaged frog erupts into a quick sigh. "And now I'm stuck with both of them. Man, Lyla, why the heck did you have to be so interested in the wrong places?"

Pale girl in question smudges a hand over her cheek. Her round face puffs into a pout. "What's wrong with the train station? I was just curious..."

"Hey, dude, there's nothing wrong with it! It's just..." Webbed fingers claw at the picnic blanket they're sitting upon; its pink-and-white checkered pattern shudders with his touch. Camofrog's face scrunches up in turn.

They glance together at the boisterous duo from across said blanket, the ones sitting with their picnic basket toppled just aside them. The frog rolls his murky eyes. "You know, everyone here knows that Curlos and Frita are related somehow... we just don't know the how. Including them."

He's kind of relieved Lyla in the least didn't remember her unanswered thoughts: those on the plaza and that tree. Sure, the sky above's filthy with clouds now, and it is starting to get a little late... but hey, what's the big deal with that? Though it could rain, then everyone would be in an awful mood. Except for him. For once. The rain's his best friend. Only Curlos and Frita have matching short tempers, and Lyla probably doesn't want to get all wet.

Yeah, whatever. Hold in your happy moments and try your best not to let them fly away... but if they go, they go... and that's that. Well. He's sure they thought it ended like that.

But even so, don't just cage your happiness... that only spoils it rotten, rotten, rotten... Cages.

"Hey, Camofrog?"

"Hmm?" He glances back toward his friend. Lyla's eyes are again in the sky. Psh, not surprising. She's always staring around with that glassy, snowglobe gaze of hers.

There's a smile beneath these as well. It's a happy little thing, fluttering and precious but impossible to control... kinda like a butterfly. Or... "I almost feel like we're detectives, in a way. Snooping out places and searching them... though I guess we haven't really stuck our noses down a villager's throat just yet." And then the glass breaks and those eyes just shine. "Could we do that?"

He stops for a moment there. "Hm. Hmmm!" Makes her laugh; he laughs back. "That's actually a very engaging and ridiculously fun idea. Yes. Let's be freaking 'detectives.' And should our case start with them?"

"Actually"—she turns back, staring at him, those pupils gleaming with the gold of the sun—"I was thinking we start with you. And Marsh."

Okay. That makes him laugh. "What the heck are you talking about, weirdo?" Oh, this'll be fun.

"Hwah! You must—waiiiit! Wait wait wait—no. If I say it like that, I'm a cop or something. Detectives are slyyyyy with their wording... hmph. Hmmmmmng." She tries and fails to suspiciously flutter her eyebrows. Not to mention that her bangs cover them as it is. "Now, Camofrog... I have to say I've been wondering... _who_ are the villagers of Marsh, and how well are you acquainted with them?"

That attempt at slyness is getting to him. He lets her see just how seriously he's taking her. "Weelll. Marsh and Wherford... they're _pretty_ close-knit. Our towns are the nearest out of the most in our area. Yeah, Butterfly's not that far, as are others, but...

"These are _our_ places..."

Lyla pauses. " _Why_ are you so good at that voice! Man! Just take my breath away already, gosh!" She laughs and shakes her head. "Okay, okay... but seriously. Now I'm curious. What is it with these people and these places?"

"Hmm? Well, it's kind of easy. We just sort of get along and always have for a long time... I reckon that ever since Freya and Fauna and whoever else came here first started, well, being here... they knew Marsh then, too. It's just been a thing that's always happened, eh? Always happened.

Who _did_ come with Fauna and Freya... someone near but... not _that_ near... no one currently living here...

"Oh, but you were asking about the villagers... ehhhhhh... they're all cool. This is all in no particular order, though: just my blanking memory. So there's Gruff... he's this goat dude, I like him. And Julian—unicorn. All you need to know. Sweet Twiggy, thoughtful Celia... tough and buff Amelia... uhh... Cube. He's a bit of an oddball. Then Pudge, who'll eat everything. Teddy... self-explanatory... Renee—big, loud rhino... and I think that's it.

"Well, no. There's Chris... He's, well, he's a real sweetheart, my gosh. I think... you'd like him." His gaze goes a little faraway for a moment there.

Slowly Lyla raises her hands to applaud him.

She mumbles, "That would be wonderful if everyone we detectiveize or whatever it is to go at someone as a detective... yeah, I think detectiveize is a word. But anyways, we do that and if _everyone_ was just like you I'd cry."

"Detectiveize is not a word."

"Welp. Now it is!"

"Oh screw you fine."

The curly-haired girl grins widely. Then her face shadows over just a bit. "You know... um, Camofrog. I know that... I'm kinda spotty when it comes to the head. But even I notice how... you know... how _weird_ Wherford is. Like there's something funny about it, right?" She offers a small, sweet smile—pocket change. "So... thanks for helping me. I really wanna get to know this place more. I mean, looks like I'll be living here..!"

What sort of things will that smile pay for one day...

Camofrog shakes his head. Roughly.

And that's when the footsteps pattern upon the cobblestone. There's just enough of it, like an old path that once led somewhere after the train station—and that's what their picnic blanket lies upon. And it's very easy to tell when some rather nice loafers go sprawling upon it. Not a headache but you tell. Lyla's head goes swiveling.

Her face paints itself white. Her smile stretches wide and she loses all her breath in one exhale.

"Is that the boy from the train..?" Her head whips back and forth, making sure this isn't some, like, dream. She doesn't hear a train, probably because she's too freaked out to notice. She jumps off of her seat and runs up to the boy, and for sure, it's the tall one with that trademark turquoise-and-brown checkered jacket clasped over. It's the one with the reading glasses and the curly brown hair and the tan and the freckles and the strange half-smirk-half-genuine-grin.

Oh. What was it she wanted to ask him?

Before she gets a chance to ponder it, the boy's lips purse. Slowly they crease into a strangely heartmelting smile. "Hey. Just visiting, you know me." Pause. A glance deeply gnawing into those aquamarine eyes of hers. "I remember you. Lyla, right?" His voice is strangely smooth, brown eyes a little shiny, but not too shiny. Slick, yeah, that.

Camofrog waddles up to his friend and stands by her. He's trying to look protective and his height isn't doing any favors.

"You've been wondering my name." His smile sharpens. "So sorry to have disappointed you all this time. It's Bruce," then his voice drops off to a whisper, "and it's very nice to meet you again."

Lyla stares back, plain dumbfounded. "Um hi" is all she manages.

The boy whose thumbprint ejected upon her soul... hello again, indeed.


	17. And We Don't Belong Now

And We Don't Belong Now

"Man! Freya, you are awesome, and Jay is by far the coolest dude to ever exist."

Big skies, warm breath of air. Four bases somewhat clearly marked by various appliances; dirt scuffed ferociously into a pattern of a diamond. Home is Freya's falcon-skull jacket; first a couple of Teddy's well-placed books; second Gruff the goat's watering can; and third the crowning point of everyone's current pairs of socks and shoes. They were running out of ideas by then. Had to think fast.

The pitcher, ball in hand, smirk on lips, stands upon a small scuff mark that's supposed to look like one big ex.

"Ex marks the spot, yeah?"

"Yo! I am so ready for this!"

"Prepare to get _creamed_!"

"Ew, I'm allergic!"

"Do I have to?"

"Yes. You do. Now c'mon, batter up!"

Blushing and twitching, hooves clasped in front of her, Fauna stumbles onto the plate. Amelia the catcher loitering around beside her hands the bat. She stares at it as if it came from the sky. And for all the books she's read, maybe it _did_.

It was Freya's idea. Maybe at first Jay's response to staying and sports was to prove himself worthy, or whatever, but she sat on the thought and eventually deemed it both approachable and needed. Somehow, miraculously, all eleven of Wherford's inhabitants—as well as a certain Bruce—piled into the train for Marsh and readied themselves for a rather intense game of baseball. And by intense, Lyla's hoping they mean _fun_.

She feels a little guilty still, looking at poor clueless Fauna, because when they were first entering and the brunette took Isabelle's paw, the thing looked so... dejected. Like without Lyla she wouldn't be... wouldn't be safe or something. Unable to sleep at night now. Like, yikes.

They more or less split themselves in half: Marsh v. Wherford, with Bruce on Marsh's side. Lyla's turn isn't quite up yet—she's second or third to last or something. Not last though. Lucha's last. Because he wasn't paying attention. But he's doing better... surely...

While she waits, Twiggy's lumbered up to her, the two of them chatting up a big, bubbly monsoon. She's beginning to think that the canary wants to befriend her as she does, and man, that is one of the coolest feelings ever. Mutual closeness, right? It's nice... When Lyla smiles, her friend smiles back, and this flower of joy blossoms somewhere inside of her.

Their pitcher—the great Teddy himself—calls Fauna out after someone yoinks the ball to first base. She steps off the diamond, looking more confused and relieved than anything.

"Hoooooo... I think I'm coming up, Twiggy! This tightness in my chest is so... so... ahhh, I'm nervous! Hahaaa, waaaah! Help!"

"Awwww!" Twiggy giggles. "Don't be scaaared! Teddy's a nice guy, he'll go easy on you." Her smile only upturns at the thought of the bear. She giggles again.

Lyla nearly whines, "Yes, and lookit where that got our friend... our friend..." Oh gosh, who was it, ehhhh...

The bird snorts. "Teddy's fair! I'm sure he saw how iffy Fauna was about the game and let her out the easy way, eh? He's like super duper duper nice and thoughtful like that!" Giggle. "Well, maybe he's not _always_ that thoughtful, the sweet blockhead, but... you know. Heheh!"

After Fauna comes Freya, and after her home run follows Curlos. Who misses. Three strikes, out. Oof... Lyla winces. If Deli messes up, she won't get to go... oh, that's being almost really spoiled but... but... oof... she really wants to go... last inning, it was three outs in a row... and still she really, really wants to go...

Twiggy, chipper grin and all, pats her friend's shoulder and heads back into the field. "You got this! Now let's see how badly Deli messes up this time, eh? Sometimes I swear he does it on purpose. Heh." And off her friend goes, all whistles and singsong.

The thought of watching her chance go into the dust in front of her sickens the poor girl. She turns her head toward the ground and messes with her frizzy, curly hair, tying and retying the hair bands and finger-combing her bangs until she's regained a piece of dignity. Hey... where'd that monkey go?

Oh. Second... nice—oh! Nice! Yes! Yes yes yes! Time to fail, but whatever! Deli you are a beautiful monkey soul!

Slowly taking the hot bat from the guy who catches the strikes behind her—Gruff, yeah, him, the green goat dude who's chill—Lyla sucks in a great breath from the air. Her head pounds, and her heart pounds, too; from just behind Teddy's head she can spy the white-furred monkey sitting by the watering can. One amethyst eye winks.

She glances back, nerves grabbing at her, and meets the monotonous stare of another boy. Oh. Bruce. Hi, Bruce. Gosh, he's so tall, tall like Teddy almost. Those eyes are kinda dark from where he stands—almost creepy. Geez. Makes her heart race even more—darn darn darn darn ow... Fear is overpowering, but she's so ready for this. Maybe.

No, what's she saying? She's gonna strike, strike, out in no time. Oh, oh, oh... Lyla almost wants to cry. Oh, why is she so stupid? She's pinned a wiggling smile to her lips and stares the bear in the eye. Tries to nod, tries not to sob. That would be weird. If nothing else.

The ball goes whizzing, a slowly expanding void of spinning spinning white, and Lyla's eyes snap tight shut.

 _vwrrrrr—shk! Kahh! Vwooooooooooooooo_ o...

She's not sure who yells it but begins running, freaking out, eyes still closed and probably in the wrong direction.

Miraculously, by the time Lyla manages to calm herself she sees that she's gotten to third base. Man, when the heck did _that_ happen? Well whatever. She doesn't know. No idea. All she knows is that her chances at making it to home base are very slim: look who's at bat. Last one in line. Bracelets on his feet, fear in his face. Oh, yeah, she's not gonna make it.

Gentle tapping. It's on her shoulder. A blush spikes her cheeks and the girl turns back to whoever the heck on Marsh's team stands by third base. Small smile, big green eyes. Slightly tanned and only slightly taller than her. That comfortable combo that works on him, the tee and shorts.

Oh. Chris...

Lyla's suddenly shy and she has no idea why. Her feet go to kicking someone's pair of boots—and why they're wearing boots in the summer, she has no idea... is that... oh.. is that—that why it's so nice and warm here? Summer. It's summer, here. It's not... it's not _like_ that in Wherford. What was it Camofrog said, and that creepy guy with the hair—the black, curly hair—before him? Not season-wise but... something is coming up in Wherford's calendar...

it's summer in Marsh...

The fingers go to her shoulder again and the brunette starts. "E-Ehhh! Sorry, what is it!" She rubs at one warm red cheek.

Chris grins softly; she can't help but mirror him in return. Then his hand goes to Lucha, and toward Teddy—specifically the ball in his hands. Chris's other hand across her shoulder bumps her again, points at Lucha—no no below him. Oh. At Freya's jacket. At home base. Another smile.

Wait... give her a moment, she's slow... "Are you saying that... that I'll..." Bare toes scrape against someone's wet, balled up sock. "You'll help me get over there... or... or something?"

Nod nod nod nod nod!

"Are you really mute?" Her eyes widen. "Wait—oh—gosh, that's rude, I'm sorry."

The boy holds up his smile in turn, then looks back at Lucha trying to hold the bat with his shaky red wings. It really doesn't suit him. Like, he looks worse for the wear than Jay. And he's _Jay_.

 _Vwrrrr—crr—chkkk! Vwooooooo!_

The ball goes sailing—somehow that guy, out of pure luck alone, managed to hit it. She can hardly believe it. It's a miracle. Chris, smirking a little, jabs at her; Lyla remembers oh yeah she better run.

Kindest boy she has yet to meet, Chris purposely steps back when the ball hits the ground near him and tosses it near second base of all things. Lyla can't quite get a look at him since he's behind her now, but she hears it sailing and she knows and she— _oof_!

Hits the ground. Struggling, red in the face, Lyla stuffs her knuckles into the earth and tries her best to get up and out of there before the ball dares to hit— _doink_.

She slumps into the soil. "I'm sorryyyyyyy, world!"

Freya laughs and Camofrog elbows her not unkindly on their way into the field. Isabelle mumbles that _she_ didn't even make it to _first_ , trying and failing to cheer up the scruffy girl; Nibbles shrugs because she ran all four bases in one shot.

Strangely overcome, Lyla halts from her place. She watches as her friends step up behind and go off in front of her. She's a rock in a stream of a burbling river, happy and dancing with the sunlight above: and it's so deliciously hot outside, it's perfect, a perfect summer day. It all is... she goes watching and can't keep the smile off her face. Jay trying for excuses, Curlos accusing him, Frita then accusing _him_ , Fauna appeasing them all because hey, she brought pie! We're all winners! Yay all that fun stuff!

Lyla can't move. She's overcome. She's just overflowing... looking at those abundant smiles like roses in the ground, like songs in this breeze and gentleness in their touch. The warmth and sweetness of it all just wraps together like the bow on a birthday gift, just pulls them all together, and for the life of her, Lyla can't lose this sense of needing to cry. She's not even sure why, it's just... it's... it's just... oh...

she can't even put it into words... darn... why not..?

She sits there, feeling like the worst emotional dishrag out there, wiping at her ebbed tears and torn emotions, her wondering feelings and frenzied wonders... and she thinks she smiles.

Footsteps follow across to her. The tall boy with the curly hair and the reading glasses beckons. His voice is low and soft; Lyla must be the only one who listens to these words of his; "You see it, don't you? I'm sure they all feel it, too. Even if they aren't stopping and trembling... like you." His voice is so soft... When Lyla turns to him, just for a moment, his eyes are strangely narrowed, a low smirk cutting betwixt his lips.

"It's funny... To worry about the time that passes in such a wonderful place..." Those lips upturn; the voice further lowers until it's just throaty grinds against one another. "Harmony. That's the magic word, I'd say." That smirk of his glistens, growing, twisted. "Time flies when you're having fun, they say; but they lie. Time stops. Harmony stops it and the moments fill you..." Until his smirk is a sneer, a sharp little sneer.

Bruce's brown orbs look up again only to see Lyla turned the other way. The smirk to the sneer, the sneer to the grimace. "Harmony, Lyla. I wouldn't forget that if I were you."

They pass ways, he to the batter line and Lyla toward the field. She allows herself now to be dissolved by the giggles and the smiles and the warmth, to try to hide in it, not away from the unseeing eye, but the one who sees through...

Twiggy goes first on purpose. Frita pitches; strike, strike, and the canary's out. She runs off from the base, tossing her bat toward the bear, and nabs Lyla's arm. "Dude, that was crazy, right!" Her giggles and special Twiggy warmth accompany her.

Leaving the game behind, the two cross over to another part of Marsh. Sort of like an adventure, they'd think. Sand in their toes, bushels of flowers along the road, great summer heat. Afternoon is turning, the clock in the sky, slowly to dusk; still it's a notion in Lyla's head that she can't stay here forever. Sad. She wishes she could say—only she knows better. She knows better...

Lyla and Twiggy go on their merry way, skipping along the seashore and finding neat seashells, building sandcastles at the feet of sandangels... Exploring, checking out flowers, just the time together beneath the great warmth of Marsh: where the air is clean, so open... so very clean... Harmony. Lyla tries to remember the word.

"Oho, did you hear that cry?" giggles the canary, "I think Renee just took a hit and sorely missed, eh? Oh, how funny! My dear, silly friends..." Head tilted to her friend, they beam.

The girl wonders then, slowly turning her aquamarine orbs away from her tie-dyed friend and toward the sky... she wonders why? Why is Marsh so different from Wherford? Why isn't it summer there..? Why are there clouds, and why is it so gloomy? And why can't they stay here forever instead? It doesn't... make sense...

maybe she is just stupid... but it really doesn't make sense... sometimes...

"Ah! Lyla!"

"S-Sorry... I just..." Arms tight around her friend, the pale girl blushes. "You mean a lot to me... I-I'm happy to be your friend..."

Twiggy smiles again. Giggles softly.

It's only until late that night do they realize Lyla's friends must have left by now. And they wouldn't have even realized if not for the boy who ran into them.

The fact that he was alone and smacked right into Lyla's head—and it gave her a good punch of realization—brought justice upon her. "Ahh! Chris! Oh my gosh! Sor—aaaaAAAAAA! FREYA'S GONNA KILL ME!"

Her yell is so oddly quiet that Twiggy hardly hears her. Lyla's face spills into her hands. "Ohhh, I gotta go, I gotta go... train station... ehh..." She starts wandering off in a random direction.

"Ehh!" Twiggy squeaks. "D-Don't go walking around on your own, it's dangerous and dark and stuff!" She looks back, spots her house nearby, and shoves at the human beside her. "Chris! Make sure she doesn't go get killed!" The boy quickly bumbles after the stupid Lyla.

His hand on her wrist—gently he leads. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, waaaaahhhh," mumbles the girl question.

By the time they reach the train station, she swears that for some of the apologies she's voiced, she's heard a soft reply to each: It's okay, it's okay, don't worry.

Chris smiles as she heads back with her tears scrubbed away.

I forgive you.

He thinks she is just as nice...


	18. For our Little Strings of Fantasy

For our Little Strings of Fantasy

Freya yells at her for a good five minutes prior to their leaving the train station.

"You nigh gave me a heart attack! I can't believe you weren't on the train with us! Oh, I knew I should've counted heads! Why did I listen to Bruce! Gaaaaahhhh!"

Lyla, face heated, mumbles, "Um, where is he, anyways? And the others? I-I mean, it's dark and all, but still..."

She earns an eyeroll in return. "Oh, they're down near the river, just below us somewhere... Though Bruce left... hmph. Fauna's little _friend_ showed up. Like heck I know when it's Saturday... I'd hoped we scared him when we weren't here..." She releases a long held-in sigh. "I might as well show you off. Come on." Freya's pink paw grabs Lyla's pale fingers and tugs them through the trees.

It's just down near the dip in the river, where Nibbles's turquoise-and-pink home lies nearby, just over the bridge. There's a someone sitting there in front of what appears to be a campfire beneath the stars. Most everyone's bundled around him, faces all flickering with the flame.

But Lucha's not around. Nor is Curlos, and Deli. Lyla carefully counts heads, heeding Freya's words: one, two, three... ehhh.. there's seven people. Hm. She thinks that's right. Seven of eleven... heck, Lyla can't math, that's probably right. And she's tired after the day... iiit's probably right.

In front of the grimmer-faced villagers—darker now with the night—lies, back against a tree, guitar in white paws: a stranger. She means, yeah, everyone in her immediate presence was a stranger only a week ago or something. But this one's a _newer_ stranger. And he's... strange. Snowy white fur, puppy dog tail and ears, thin fur unlike Isabelle. Guitar. Strumming.

Can he play?

Oh, and that's not even the weirdest part, no. The weirdest part is how upon that same tree, back just against him is: no, it's not another stranger: is that Fauna? Small, brown face pink, ducked by the dog. Yes. Holy yes, it is Fauna.

And she's so... she's sitting so close to him... and her face is so full of adoration...

that's so weird...

The dog notices her. He's got triangular black eyebrows and big, black eyes to match. Black nose upon his muzzle. Small lips. "Hm. I'm afraid I don't remember you." Soft, smooth voice thrumming with tune. "Then I guess you don't remember me, either." Humming with rhythm, driven with rhyme. "My name is Totakeke. Keke Slider is my stage name."

Small smile. Her head bobs up and down, up and down. She falls rather quickly to the ground. Staring. "I thought singers didn't tell your their name name."

"Some of them do." His strumming grows softer. "They all know. You might as well, too." Softer. "Now... what song should I play... hm..." Softer, softer, softer.

It stops.

"Ah, I know."

His voice lowers, strums overcome it. "How does 'Steep Hill' sound?

 _Hmmm..._

 _Up there it blooms, but wallowed deep away...  
It is a pang, it blooms  
The blooming only takes to decay...  
But yet the numb, the hidden, broken pain...  
It thrives up high, so whole  
And only those of knowing singeth..._

 _Nooow, nooww  
_ _breaking  
_ _Noowww, nowww  
_ _oh oh oh see, a strong will  
_ _singeth  
_ _oh, climb the hill...  
_ _Nooooww, nowww  
_ _dying  
_ _Nowww, nooww  
_ _oh oh, e-mo-tion filled  
_ _The steep hill._

 _Blooming,  
Only on the steep hill.  
To despair,  
fear,  
travesty again..._

 _Up there it blooms, but wallowed deep away...  
It is a pang, it blooms  
The blooming only takes to decay...  
But yet the numb, the hidden, broken pain...  
It thrives up high, so whole  
And only those of knowing singeth..._

 _Nowww, noooww  
_ _breaking  
_ _Noow, noooww  
_ _oh oh oh see, a strong will  
_ _singeth  
_ _oh, climb the hill...  
_ _Nowww, nowww  
_ _dying  
_ _Noowwww, nowww  
_ _oh oh, e-mo-tion filled...  
_ _The steep hiiillllllll..."_

One great sigh of a breath, and it is over.

Gently his dark, nigh soulless eyes turn to Lyla. "Take the music with a grain of salt, love. I trust my words help in some way."

So she wonders... a little worried... a little bit, now...

Then he goes and takes requests from the group in front of him. Fauna offers hers, too, mostly the sweet and soft ones, I Love You, K.K. Stroll, the like.

But yet the numb, the hidden, broken pain... and only those of knowing singeth...

Oh, she wonders... a little worried now...

And she realizes that Jay—Jay is missing too... where is Jay..?

Pain... pain... pain... hmmm...


	19. Have Snipped so Long Ago

Have Snipped so Long Ago.

 _Pon pon pon pon pon!_

"Come on come on! Open up, Lucha! Let's go, let's go! Today is the day! Luuuuuuchaaaa _aaaaaaaaa_!"

There's a rustling from inside of his room. Early morning sunshine is just beginning to come through.

"Uhhhng... Lyla... Lyla... why? It's... it's so early out... why are you pestering me now..?"

More pounding at the door.

"It's important, Lucha! You're my friend and you _have_ to come with me!"

"...that's... not a very good reason.

 _PON-PON_.

"Yeeek! O-Okay! I'm coming!"

The minutes pass by in a flurry and the moment Lucha's wing props open the door Lyla yanks him away. She drags and drags him to the train station and the first locomotive that passes she forces the both of them on.

And they wait.

"Lyla, will you tell me... why we're..?"

Dead-set aquamarine orbs bolt upon him. Lucha starts in his seat with a squeak.

"There's something I need to show you."

Maybe she chose him ultimately because she wasn't thinking straight and Lucha sounded like a good idea in her head; but in the end she's... relieved she chose the red bird with the white-feathered face like a mask out of anyone else. He's in a jacket not unlike one of Freya's that's a little large on him, tight jean pants that probably are his accompanying.

Lucha _is_ her friend. And she trusts him.

Because for some reason he trusted her first impression on him when they first met... and he's fun. Maybe he is a bit of a dork, but he's trying, and he is fun.

And there is something she needs to show him.

She looks out the window to a bright day off in Wherford; her heart seizes in her chest. It's so bright—where are the clouds?—why didn't she realize this until now?— _where are the clouds_? But she can't see the sky no not in the train... so she doesn't know...

Calm down, Lyla. Lucha's got a small smile on his face. His wing gently pokes at her. "Hey... u-uh... it's okay, Lyla. I-I'm here. I'm awake mostly." He stares intently at her drooping face. "Lyla..?"

"S-Sorry," she splutters, turns toward him, turns back, crashes her face and her elbows on the table.

Dumbfounded, feeling like the stupidest boy in the word, he mumbles, "I-It's okay. Don't... worry about it." Gently places his head on the table, tries to catch a glimpse of her. She's trembling.

"We're okay... um. We're gonna go see our... friends." Even he's been there before Lyla. Even he has.

 _Kchhhhhhhh..._

Somehow it's silent when the train ends its run. Lyla steps up on shaky—barefoot—feet, takes slow thoughtless steps to the station.

Only there is no station.

Then why has the train halted? Lyla's head yanks to the side—because this is where the tracks end. Didn't the tracks always end at Marsh anyways? Oh. Nothing. Doesn't matter. She's nervous.

Harmony.

Was that what Bruce told her? Harmony... harmony.. she peers a little worriedly at the lack of a station, pulls on Lucha's wing, and steps off into the marshy soil. The train stays put in despondent waiting. She doesn't bother to glance at the driver.

It's cold here. Her skin prickles. Yet it's so... so bright here... are... are those tree branches in the sky? Well that's weird... maybe she's hyperventilating and that makes it look like tree branches are in the sky. She doesn't know.

It does feel like a panic attack, though.

There are no houses.

Where are the houses?

Sickening thought in her head. Where is _anything_? Why is it _gone_? What is... what is...

Gold coins scattered at a loss on the earth. The big ones. The big ones from Nook's store.

Just there.

Hoarsely, the girl whispers, "Twiggy? Twiggy? He-Hey? Twiggy..? Where are you..?"

Where's anyone? This is supposed to be... this is... this is...

She's shaking. She can't stop shaking. Her head hurts. She's scared. It's so, so cold. It's like the middle of winter in a blizzard, it's cold.

Her knees give out.

 _Oof._

Not even the baseball diamond... everything is... it's... it's _gone_. Scuffed out by footprints of mud. Mud. Who did this? No. It's not... it's not possible. She was just here yesterday. Wasn't she? That was yesterday. Now it's... now it's...

Lucha puts a wing over her shoulder. He tries to stay calm. Keeps his head up.

He's shaking too.

Only, Lyla can't breathe.

The kindness of a gentle expression consumes her. Dark hair, dyed green at the tips, gentle, gentle, it's okay, I forgive you...

buried like the dead and gone... Marsh is really just a marsh now...

Only Lyla can't breathe. Lyla can't breathe.

She slowly raises her head and wails into the sunlight.

 **For the curious, no. She's not in the wrong place (just in case you were wondering.)**

 **Marsh _is_ gone. Why do you think it's gone? What do you think happened to it? How literally everything (but a few strange coins) disappeared into nothing?**

 **And yes, Lyla and Lucha are getting closer.**

 **Just wanted to say that...**

 **heh. Goodbye Marsh... goodbye Chris, goodbye Twiggy...**

 **I feel sort of like a monster, pff...**


	20. It was a Gloomy Eve like This One

It was a Gloomy Eve like This One

Yellow paws fidget from where they lay on the table. Big, blue eyes stare them down hopelessly, but without avail, they puff outwards. Her face is red. Flustered red. Upset, troubled, near-tears red. And it's so empty and cold, so lonely in the town hall now. No one ever comes in mostly. It's just like she _does_ live here, and this is _just_ her house. No other purpose but Isabelle's bed.

And someone else's too. Yes, someone very important.

Her paws twitch and twitch purposefully, pawing at the air with need. She can't get them to stop. Her face is so hot. It doesn't matter that nobody's around. She feels like some kind of fool, oh, yes, a big yellow fool. She's so... sad!

She sits in the back room feeling helpless. There are two windows bundled up with curtains, a small old-fashioned phone against the wall, and two big doors.

Thunder crackles outside, gravelly and cold like an old man's laughter as he trips and falls down the stairs. Isabelle's eyes widen, twitching and crawling all around the darkened downstairs chamber. The fireplace is so near, beckoning with golden hands, but yet it's gone, locked away from her mind. It's cold in here. Lonely, yes, lonely.

The thunderous old man growls. On the prowl across the chamber. His shadow walks around the walls without stopping, his gait fearless, his work divine.

Her paws twitch and fumble for the door. Just a little bit to the right. Get up from the table, smooth the tablecloth, walk it all behind. Oh, but it's not so easy. Oh, no, no, no. She's twitching in her dress. Everything is itchy—oh, everything has eyes and it's so dark outside. Last she checked it was midday. Will it ever stop raining?

No, this is Wherford, she chastises herself. It never stops raining.

But does it?

No, no. Oh, she scared Lyla away, didn't she? She must be an awful little doggy, scaring away a friend she could trust so well! She wants to curl up bawling and at the same time charge through the lightning and storm and barrel down Lyla's door. Oh. Oh no. No. She's not welcome there. No. She wouldn't be. Lyla must hate her now... must hate her...

Isabelle had no idea how fragile the pale girl would be. Freya... Freya thought maybe Lyla shouldn't have come here. Maybe it was all some awful mistake, and they just ruined the poor girl.

 _Brrhhhhhhhhhhhhg!_

"YEEEEK!" Isabelle's hands go over her eyes and she weeps to herself. Console won't come. The old man is prowling, growling in her ear, his musty breath so, so near...

C-Come on. Come on, Isabelle. Don't let this get to you... st-stop shivering!

The voice isn't her voice. It's like her voice, but it's not. But it's safe. It's a safe voice. Right now it's in her head, but not always. Sometimes it's right by her.

It's okay to be scared, Isabelle. It's okay. The door is right there... right there is the door, so close, so close... you can get up, can't you? It's okay, it's okay... just a little then to the right...

Like a light the words prevail. The heart in her chest is beating. She glances fearfully across the room once more, so frightfully sure the monster is coming. But he's not. She's alone. The door is _right there_. Oh, but what if this is a bad time? What if she becomes useless? Just another dull tool tossed into the shed, never to be unearthed again...

Or what if she ends up like _him_? Nook knows best... but Nook went missing... as did everyone... and that scared Lyla away, and now Isabelle is just so, so... oh! She can't stand herself. She wipes at her eyes and chews at her lip. Why, why, why. Just a little to the right. She knows this.

I'm here for you, Isabelle. Come. Please. I'll take care of you.

She knows, she knows, she knows! But what if... what is he'll hate her too! What if... what if this is all a horrible idea!

 _BRAHHHHHHHHHHH!_

A flash of lightning blinds her gaze, sends her reeling out of her chair, spilled upon the wooden floorboards. They shriek with her weight, cry out in protest, leave me alone, leave me alone, you stupid dog! Isabelle wails. "No _oo_ o _oooo_ ooo _oo_ o!"

She's gonna go insane. She's gonna get hurt. Something. But does it matter? Oh, no, the voice again, soft and gentle, caresses her and holds her. It's okay, Isabelle. It's okay to be scared. I'm almost right here, so close, so close...

"Will you hate me?" she whispers. Thunder yells back at her, but the voice is soft and sweet, no, it won't hate her. He won't hate her, he'd never hate her.

Isabelle lunges over the table and slams against the door and her paws go flying for the wooden phone just to the right of it. One paw fidgets, resting against a small pouch by the wall, a pouch that once sat on a man's desk in a town once called Marsh that once, once upon a time, did exist. The other hopelessly dials, the tears like daggers gliding down her face. The shadows won't touch her when she's already living here, but it feels like it. And it's scary. And it might not be good for... oh, she has to!

The dog on the other end picks up near immediately.

"Digby!" She howls, "Oh, Digby! Please! Please! Digby! Please come!"

…

"Hnnnnhhh..." A soft pink face peeks out from the windows, wincing as she's met with a spark of lightning in the eye. Grimace. "The sky is so black you'd think it's night. I worry for Fauna... I should've gone down there, shouldn't I have? Oh, probably. She must be terrified right now. But anyone who goes out there is running into the open arms of suicide..." The grimace thickens, a knife cutting through her feelings.

Her own room isn't too small, not too shabby. Instruments lie in a somewhat haphazard heap toward one end, where the television and the stereo and other miscellaneous machines lie all scrambled together. Her curtains are long and silver-lace elegant, and she's got three windows, one in three of the walls with nice and thick walls at that, and her head is peeking behind one now. The tiles are cold underfoot. Freya kinda wishes she'd put on her slippers before stepping off the bed.

There is a small closet-like space as well. To the right. Small enough to slip in between the walls without giving her home a bulky apparel, but large enough to fit at least two villagers comfortably. There she has her headphones. And a pillow. In case.

She feels a chill from behind her and refuses to turn around until it's gone. Gently her pink paws slip over the curtain, tying it shut again. Shaking her head. Mutters beneath her breath.

Slowly Freya takes her waltz around the coldly-tiled room. Not once does she stop from looking at a wall, careful not to step on the wires by the one side of the room, very very careful as she sits upon her silky bed toward the back of her home. Doesn't look behind her. Can't feel a weight on the bed.

Sigh.

She wonders aloud, "Maybe I will sleep through the storm. It is loud and bright, but I've always had luck with getting to bed anyway. Yeah, maybe I will.

Met with silence.

"Or perhaps I _should_ check on—" Oh no. Don't even think of it. Suicide. She was just curious if something would happen if she said it. She's not going to. She wants to. Almost needs to. Dearly. But she can't. It's not safe. It's very not safe out there. When was it safe at all? Oh, but right now... _right now..._

The room is empty, breathlessly breezy. The chill on her back is wordlessly painful. The breath in her lungs disperses like a big icy hand is crushing it out of her. "Maybe," she wheezes, wondering, eyes tearful with the stab, "maybe it was my fault this all happened... Oh, I try so hard, and then Marsh is gone. Did we... did we visit _too much_? I couldn't tell... I swear I was careful, hadn't gone for a couple months anyways... a-at least I think it was a couple months! A-Aahhhh, h-h-ho _oww_ should I even kno _oowww_?"

Auhh!

"Was it my fault for missing Lyla's dispersion? My fault for not realizing she wasn't on the train until we'd already left? Oh, why did I trust Bruce..? He tells me things..." He tells me things and he lies, but she doesn't finish the sentence aloud. "All kinds of interesting things... ouh..."

Was there any fault at all? But why? Oh, why? Lyla had loved it there. She loved Twiggy and loved Teddy and the way she looked and Chris... and then it was gone!

Nobody understands...

All she knows is that there is a girl with thick, curly brown hair who is hiding. Her aquamarine eyes she's hidden with blankets, her body she's stuffed into a mattress. And like a cocoon she's staying in, but very unlike one she's never coming out. She's stopped, hasn't she? And she's stayed like that for days now, without food, without a soul because she's yelled aimlessly at everyone...

Freya closes her eyes tight and lays down on her back. She's pressed against the full length of her bed.

Her pain begins to drain away as she loses herself in sleep.


	21. On a Sad Day Indeed

On a Sad Day Indeed

Footsteps announce themselves when they step up toward the newly made house. It's not new enough that it smells of paint and the tar holding shingles onto the roof, but it's fresh and the air in it kinda tastes good. Not like rain. Well yet, anyways.

The two stand, one feeling like a complete idiot and the other calling his friend one. Because he really is a complete idiot. He's gotten better... but well. Not completely better. It takes awhile for _that_ to happen.

But it's happening. Like a butterfly his wings are starting to spread...

"De-Deli! Deli..!" Frantic whispering brings him back.

The monkey snorts, brown face scrunching. "Yeeeeees? What is it thiiis tiiiiiime?" Slight giggle.

Of course, Lucha doesn't react very kindly to that. "He-Hey! Iiiiit's only ex-ex-ex... _pected_ that I'd be nervous... Ca-Can you help me or not? Should I... ju-just go home? I could... I could go back home and do nothing, that... that works too."

"Shut up, Lucha. No it doesn't."

He fumbles in place, beak nearly crushing into the door. "Why are you so mean to me? You're not mean like that to anyone else... i-it makes me feel awkward... you know how awkward I get when I feel awkward... you know h-how bad it gets..."

"Aww, Luchie..." His best friend titters. Gently, feeling like some mom to the bird. Well, yeah, Lucha grew up in a house full of girls older than him, but still. He feels kinda ridiculous. "Lucha, I only tease you more than everyone else because we're so close, right?" He waits, amethyst eyes twinkling.

"I-I guess..." While the rest of his body is adorned by either red or dark feathers, his face has the honor of translucent white: the blush becomes evident and quickly grows.

Deli giggles. The white fur around him does not cover his brown cheeks, so there's a little something... but it looks more like dirt. No one really questions it. "Oh come on. We're right here. Lucha, you're wearing your favorite pair of skinny jeans, and by the sweet soul of the girl sleeping inside, I _swear_ we are going to open that door."

Fear also displays itself like a stain on Lucha's face. His whimpers are muffled, but he's not very good at hiding them. "Do we have to open the door? Why can't we... l-like... go through the window or the chimney or something? Y-Yeah! Let's go through the chimney, Deli, then she won't like hear us knock on the door... won't be waiting for us... e-ehhh..."

"Lucha. Oh my gosh. You're not Santa Claus, and you're not Jingle either. Now be a dear and stop whining when I knock."

The bird begins what Deli thought he would do. "Whhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh..."

"You're not getting out that waaaaaaaaaaay~" cheerfully sings his best friend. Then he raises his brown fingers dusted in their white fur, his innocent smile tugging at his cheeks as he goes _pon, pon, pon_ , and Lucha cries out in near-horror. But it's quiet, because Lucha's pretty quiet. Deli's only heard him actually raise his voice once... and that was in an... extreme circumstance. Of sorts. _He_ wouldn't call it extreme, but whatever: his best friend is a weirdo as it is.

They hum to themselves, Lucha in pain and Deli against him as they receive no sign of acknowledgment. Oh. Well. The monkey shrugs, all smiles, and tries again: _pon! pon! pon!_ Maybe that'll get her out, eh? Maybe she didn't hear them. It's rather easy to miss things in a dump like Wherford.

Lucha's gone quiet. The voice on his tongue has just... died. He's nervous. Like, really nervous. And nerves usually make him twitchy and like really need to whine. But that's not it. He's... scared. Scared for Lyla. He was there when the girl watched her Marsh fantasies wipe from her mind.

She fainted. He had to carry her back.

Worried, he tugs on his best friend's arm and Deli whips his head back. There's a smile on his face without the laughter. Behind his eyes lies just enough worry to show there's certainly _something_ going on in here.

 _PON. PON. PON._

Heavy wood door. Wicked-looking iron-spike lining. The little knocker circle thing's nearly knocked off its socket.

Deli pants softly. Lucha winces. His friend's knuckles were done in. Bad.

"Okay. That's it. Lucha, take my advice and never do what I'm about to do unless the circumstances allow for it. Okay? And don't do it and pretend that there's a reason when you could just knock. Or something."

"We should go through the chimney," he mumbles.

Deli smirks. "You, my dearest friend, are an idiot." And he hefts himself, not particularly strong in any way. Gently he checks the door, teasing it open. And out it pops. Oh. Oh right. Lyla's an idiot too! Of course she forgot to lock it. Wow. That took him a moment.

"I-I swear you were gonna pop open a hole in the door."

"Yeah, me too. Turns out Lyla's stupider than you! Hooray! Let's go, Luchie!" And without waiting for his friend's wailing, he nabs the red-feathered wing and shoves the both of them into the chamber. It's so... they note it first. So dark. The wallpaper—he can't make out what's on the wallpaper. Deli's eyes scrunch a little angrily; he doffs at his pocket, wondering if he'll need his glasses... nnh. No. No, he can make his way around. And he can pester Lucha if he really needs it.

Gently they ease their way toward the bed. Some keep theirs shoved toward a wall, hugging any wall, just a wall preferably. Like some sort of creepy coffin, hers is nicely kept in the middle, she stuffed beneath it. You can tell because her head is a round little area at the top.

Is she sleeping? Uh... did she hear them? Deli's heart sinks in his chest. Is she... okay? There's a shifting of the sheets, so she _is_ breathing, if nothing else. Alive. Oh, alive. One big breath and release.

"Deli, I think she's dead!"

He nearly slaps something. A thick, heavy laugh bursts through his lips and he falls back to the ground onto a rug he hadn't seen until he was on it. "LUCHA! Oh my GOSH!" Loud, squeaky giggles escape the monkey's grip before he can stuff himself. But he can't help it... that guy's thoughtlessness makes him laugh... "No, she's breathing, Lucha. Don't worry about it!"

"Are you _sure_? Are you... really, really sure?" Ah? Had the little red bird gotten attached to their new friend? Aw, how cute.

"By all means, I won't judge if you think you should give her mouth-to-mouth."

He laughs silently as Lucha's face goes as red as the rest of him. But he doesn't think his best friend gets the joke—he's just embarrassed because Deli is picking on him. As always.

Has Lucha ever gotten so worked up over a girl before? He knows Lucha...

"Wh-What do you mean by that, Deli? E-Euhhh... you're freaking me out... maaaaann..." And then the whimpering returns.

Deli just laughs looking at that idiot. But he's a sweet idiot... and he's really not an idiot... heh. No. Deli just teases him, poor Lucha. Maybe he should stop, looking at his friend trying so hard.

As his own voice lowers off into short bursts, they find another hidden, trying so hard to hide, beneath his. It wobbles when Deli's levels off, and it breaks off into sharp coughing. Lucha squawks as he realizes and tosses the blankets off the brunette's head—her curls go everywhere. Not in their bands... oh, gosh, they're so big...

Frantically Lucha pushes and pushes back at the chestnut curls, checking at her soft, puffy face. She's okay. Laughing again when she sees his big, wide eyes. It's soft laughter, less pained laughter. Gentle. Sweet. Innocent, so innocent. Lucha's heart tugs at just the sight of that poor girl.

She manages three words before her head hurts too much to keep going.

"Thank... yo-ou... Lucha..."

They move back, give her space, tilted toward a door cracked open and breathing air into the dying chamber. Life shines, gives the sticky wallpaper still dripping with pawprints Isabelle probably put on there a glimmer. The two smile softly, somber. Deli mouths it too, thank-you, Lucha. The bird blushes thickly.

"Deli? Why'd you mention Santa and Jingle earlier?" His voice lowers like he just said a bad word. Or two bad words. "Why, of all things... I-I mean... I mean..." He stubbornly hiccups.

His best friend's smile doesn't change as he slowly shakes his head. "It just came out. Sorry, Lucha. Don't wanna upset you. Hey... Halloween's coming up, eh? That'll be fun..."

Sad little memories shine in his gaze. They're dusty old things... Deli shakes his head, smile returning. "Again, thanks."

"Heh..." Lucha looks away, then, unable to hold it all in.


	22. When all the Lights Went Out

When all the Lights Went Out

It's another day.

Sad. Quiet. Depressive. Uneventful. Particularly. The others must be out, she wonders to herself, kicking a bit in her covers. But it's safe and quiet in here, and it's here in particular where her thoughts can go where they need. She can think about the horrible thing that happened and hate herself as strongly as she must for it. Oh... why must she be so stupid! Dhhhh... it's depressing.

If she's so stupid and forgetful, and if she would repeat her previous actions as she has been, perhaps this she would breeze over and get up from, just keep going. But she... but she...

Twiggy was real once, wasn't she? That sweet yellow canary... she was real, wasn't she? Once upon a time, Lyla would blink her aquamarine eyes and she would _see_ this canary in front of her, in her tie-dye clothing and paint-splattered jeans. She was a bird. And Lyla loves birds. They're elegant and beautiful and Lyla just wants to hold them so badly.

Twiggy flew out of her arms and into the skies where nowhere belongs. And now she's all but entirely gone. She and everyone else too. Lyla can't... she can't wrap her head around that. It's hard to comprehend that an entire town could just... stop. Like that. Like it did. And it hurts to think about, but it's all she can bother thinking of.

Was it her fault it all turned off and wilted away? Freya told her it was dangerous. A lot of things were dangerous... was time running out? Was it all her fault? Bruce's chortling, creepily toned face juts into her sight, into her head, his soft and rumbling laughter filling her body until it's all she hears and all she breathes. He said something.. he said something... something about _them_... about Marsh... before it was gone... and he was there... and... and... oh... she doesn't know...

Her eyes go lolling into the ceiling she thinks someone important painted for her... a plop of strawberry red smacks onto her forehead at just the wrong timing. Lyla sneezes. It's so cold and her head is so hot, so big and gaudy. Ulh. She liked it when Lucha and Deli came over, they were nice and made her feel better. Now she's just... depressing sludge. How tactless. Leaves a bad taste in her mouth.

"Hi!"

Oh no. Not a high-pitched childish voice she can't recognize. Lyla would toss her pillow over her head if only the paint wasn't so wet and... splotchy. She doesn't really want everything to get strawberry red. It's an okay color she supposes, but it's not her favorite color for sure. Bright red. So red... there are so many things that color... it's dripping onto her eyelids. Aw, turd.

"Helloooooo? Who are youuuuuu? I've never seen you before... hmn!"

This yellow cat sticks her head up over the side of Lyla's bed. Her little pink nose scrunches. "Ew! Is that wet paint on your face? Paint smells so groossssss! Eeewwwwww! You should wipe that ooofffffff!"

Lyla grunts. She's not sure what she was trying to say, but man, her mouth is dry, now that she thinks about it. When was the last time she drank something? No scratch that: when was the last time she ate? It takes all of her willpower and some extra to keep a loud growl from her belly being known.

"Oh? Awww, do you need help? Well guess what! I've gotchu!" A random tissue falls onto her face and is scrubbed at by the tiny pads of the kitty's paws. More or less the paint comes off. More or less. She's trying to blink at the stuff on her eyelids still. "Well I guess that's better. Wow... who painted your room?! They must've put sooooo much heart into it, lookit all this work!"

Again Lyla grunts at miss kitty kitty. She tries to get a better look at the thing and notes a hat on her head, a sunhat? Little brown curls of hair beneath that. Hm. She has a nice blue dress, Lyla supposes.

Who would care about her enough to paint so much, and who would paint so much in the first place? She can't remember...

"Um? Who the heck are you now?" After speaking, Lyla just coughs and coughs for a few moments there.

Miss kitty kitty blinks, bashful. "Oh! Hiiiii! I'm Katie! That's kay-ae-tee-aii-ee! Not with a wye, why would it be with a wye?" Blink. "So who are you?"

Cough. "Ly...la."

"Oooh, I like that name!" Lyla sags back into her bed. "So, Miss Lyla..." Well, this Katie not Katy kid is looking pretty young. Maybe twelve... so... "Where are we, exactly? Like... uhhh... what town are we in? I got lost and now I'm like stuck... and I think there's a thunderstorm outside... nnnh." She pouts some.

Lyla shrugs. "Wherford. Ever heard of a Wherford?"

Silence.

Wait. Wait a second. Katie was talking like crazy five seconds ago. Where did she—

 _pffffg_.

Ah. On the floor. Impractical, but okay then.

"U-Ummm..." Eventually the kitty works up her nerve again. Her voice suggests she hates Lyla for answering with such a name. "Are you sure? You _sure_ you live in Wherford? Are you _suuuuuure_?" Um. Okay then.

"Yeah."

"Re-Reaaaally? E-Eehhh... that's no good! That's no good at all!"

Lyla blinks at the ceiling. "I'm sorry?"

"Doesn't..." Katie's once-boisterous voice loses a few octaves. "Doesn't, like... haven't you heard of a _Jaxk_ , though? Heard of Jaxk at all? At... at all, at all? And... move here? Here?" What? Uh. That's... weird.

Cough. Lyla's suddenly coughing, trying to think, trying to focus. It's... oh, how did Katie say it? Oh. Oh—perfectly. She said it perfectly, like how someone else said it... like how someone really special... "How did you do that?"

"D-D-Do what? What did I do?"

"You said his name really well."

"Yhhhh..." And because she is still a child, Katie drops whatever's been ailing her entirely. Maybe Lyla's too lax or something. "Well, yeah! I'm _special_!"

"Uhhhh... special?"

"Uh-huh! Isabelle and Digby are special too! And... and Mister Nook, and Miss Sable... and Miss Mabel, yeah! And there's _more_ , too!"

Lyla's the kinda person to believe a twelve-year-old over a whim any day, but even she stops for a moment. "Uhhhh... cool, I guess."

"Yeaaaah! But because I'm so special, I might... need to... leaaaaaave soooooooon! Like, like really soooooon!" She's stuttering in place now, remembrance smacking her in the face as she stuffs that red-stained tissue into a pocket of her dress. "I-I might need to gooooo!"

White-hot lightning streaks through the windows. Lyla blinks, flustered, and tries to yell for the girl to calm down and she'll like walk her to the train station when the rain dies down—but by the time the flash is over, Katie as well has vanished.

She blinks. Lands back onto her pillow. Stares, abashed, at the ceiling.

A great plop of blue paint lands on top of her forehead.


	23. And Love Replaced with Greed

And Love Replaced with Greed

With nothing but the thin nightgown cloaking her body, a handful of crumbly somethings, and nothing else, Lyla sets out into the night. This is a good idea, she keeps telling herself, even though it probably isn't. She's sort of full of bad ideas. It's hard to sort those out from the few good.

Oh, but it's been so long since she's moved. Her legs glide through the air: it's so easy to walk without the weight of the blankets smuggling her. She's almost free... like she can fly. Like a bird... oh, no, but she's not the bird. But maybe... maybe _they_ are. You know. The reason she's outside in the first place.

Lyla's very slightly sure that she's not gonna break that rule of don't-go-out-alone again. But she swears... there was something on the tip of her sight like a burr but not a burr but a bird, floating, wings and all. Lucha? Jay? Maybe she's going insane. But she'd swear on the crumbly somethings in her hand and the clothing on her back that it _is_ very much something. Something at the least.

She flails through the air. Her teeth she grits, her hands she tugs, but she can't fly in this atmosphere. She can't move like she so desires. Of course she can't. Man. She is _not_ doing well today. Oh, no, it's not Lyla's night... she's been burning all kinds of thoughts in her foggy, heated brain, she hardly remembers her own name let alone any form of a yesterday.

Is this a bad idea?

Then she just sees that form... bits of crumbly brown crust fall from her fingers and she prances on, twisting through the night. It's cold and breezy out here: the wind howls through her ears, creepy and trickling, slowly slowly, and her breath she loses in front of her lips. Grunt. Shake of the head. Crumbs fall from her fingers and she goes on.

Fauna visited this morning. She was sweet, oh, so sweet, and with her sweetness came her brownies.

Lyla hasn't lifted a single one near her lips.

They're in her hand. All of them. Crumbly somethings sprinkle over the loss of the darkness.

Now I won't get lost, not ever again. She tells this to herself, nodding feverishly. This is a very very good idea. Fauna's sweet brownies crumble beneath her sweaty palms; her soft chocolate eyes dissolve from Lyla's heated brain. She shakes her head, drops her crumbs, and again she moves on. She doesn't know where she's going, she's following the guy. Guy... thing. Ulh. She doesn't know.

Who is it? She wants to ask into the air, lips parted and heavy with the thought—no, what if that's a bad idea? Wait... well. What is a bad idea, anyways?

Flustered, her forehead wrinkles as she stares into her hands. She tosses more crumbs as she begins to move on. A clock now, ticking with time, slowly starting after a long, rusty shutdown. Shuddering into place again. Only the time is completely off, like any old clock would be.

Aquamarine orbs glare into the night. Oh... she _swears_ she saw something, and she's pretty sure it was a bird. Like, really sure. It's too black to get much of a sight on anything, but she's sure. Her sticky, sweet fingers slick over one eye. She squints further, glares more. Bits of crumbly sweet brownie fleck from her pale pads and tumble to her feet.

It's not raining, if nothing else. It's cold. It's misty. Yeah. Yuck. But... are there any clouds in the sky? Lyla pulls her head upwards, searches, forehead all scrunchy. She's not sure. Maybe? It's dark. She dunno.

Oh, the bird! The bird is moving. Flailing, desperate now, her crumbs scattering behind her, Lyla chases after it. She's gotta get it. Nothing else matters right now. Just... just that strange black creature that could be a shadowy Lucha, a shadowy Jay, doing something strange and worrisome out alone in the night... she just has to catch it... just has to catch the stupid thing...

Arms out wide. Legs twisting over one another, nearly tripping her with each step. Come on. Come on... Her fingers have lost the sweet influence of brownies and she falls twice. Dirt sprays over her face. She gets up, keeps going.

She has to, she has to.

And thus she goes after the shadowy creature... and the shadow grows in her vision, greater, greater...

 _Ker-PLOOOOSHHHHhhhh...plooooooooossshh...oooshhhhh...oshhhh...hhhhh..._

"Khh... hppppb..."

Under.

…

Camofrog finds her passed out in the river. Sopping; half-sobbing; half-drowned; half-dead, for crying out loud.

Idiot. He nearly starts crying. His wheeze suggests he's about to spill over. Oh, gosh, that freaking _idiot_. Hyperventilation. Oh, oh, gosh... don't die, you idiot, please don't die, Lyla. Please don't... please don't...

He steps into the mighty currents like they're nothing. Plucker her out like a waterlily. Tosses her onto the earth like a fish and stares at her, lost. Her fingers have caved with sweet, slick chocolatey brownies... or maybe it's dirt. He can't tell. She's a mess, that much is obvious. Her forehead's burning when he puts a slick hand against her.

The dam nearly folds in on itself; again he's on the edge, about to cry with her. That _idiot_!

Swaddled in blankets and stuffed upon his bed, he leaves her there in his house for awhile. Tries to get her to drink water. She's half-awake now. Half-alive now. She's gonna make it, right?

Head curled into his hands, the throaty frog sighs. "Lyla, what are we gonna do with you..?"


	24. But Honestly I Don't Believe That

But Honestly I Don't Believe That

"Hey... heeeeyyyy..! Come onnnn... open your eeyyeeees... ulh, Lyyylaaa... Lyylaaaaaaaaaaaa..!" Snort, silence. "Ah, there we go. Yeah. You... you okay? Your fever's really high, doofus. Don't go doing whatever that was again. I swear I thought you were gonna hurt yourself bad." Sigh.

Quietly, "That would make me sad, you d-dolt."

Aquamarine orbs manage their focus on the short amphibian sitting beside her, murky gaze even further clouded by this point. Man. He looks like someone kicked his grandma. What happened to _him_?Oh no. She didn't kick his grandma, did she? Wait. No. No... slowly the memories resurface. From where? She doesn't know. Why would she know anything?

"Lyla... oh my gosh." One hand over his camouflaged face, the frog releases another sigh. "I swear. You are the biggest idiot I have yet to meet. And I get the feeling you're unrivaled here... can I just— _why_ were you _outside_ late at night? And _why_ in the river?"

"In the river? Wait... are you sure this is my alibi? Are you sure we're talking about the same thing?" Hey, hey, she's gotta keep her bases down. If nothing else.

The crudest smirk she's ever seen draws itself on the frog's face. "Midnight, I wake up to a splash in the river just in front of my house. You know. The river you now live south of. Like... your house is right next to Curlos's, heck..." Now it's exasperation. Oh, yeah. That's a _lot_ of exasperation.

Lyla coughs. "Um. What time is it now, then?"

The smirk makes its valiant return. "I dunno, midnight-thirty? You were out for a little while. Gosh, _please_ don't do that again. Or scare me so much whatsoever. Though I don't know if I can ask that of you..."

She can't really make any promises, she being her lovely self, but Lyla nods anyways. Camofrog just looks at her and his smirk arcs further along his face.

Then it all falls apart on itself. Spinning out of place. Flat and fallen. Back to the bottom. It looks... painful. Lyla winces. She reaches toward her friend, who grunts and shakes his head instead. Guilt. Oh, it's so gross and clammy... guilt.

"I... I'm sorry, Camo." Her gaze flickers to the ground. She forgot to put on shoes. Huh...

"No. Uh—gah, it's fine, ignore that, I just..." Again the sagging. Again with the sadness. Its' really not making Lyla feeling better, if that's what he's going for. If anything, now she's just nervous. Stark in her towels and blankets and twitching against the nightgown Camofrog modestly left on her, bless him; she's so twitchy.

Worry creases her already feverish face until the frog grunts. "Ah, sorry, uh... Can I tell you something, Lyla?"

"Um." Swallow. All quiet and strangely gentle—harmless—just as she is, Lyla tries for a nod. "Sure. Go ahead."

One breath. Casual glance to the girl. "So, uh... when I was five, leaving my tadpole stage, all that fun stuff... I fell into a lake. And yeah, I'm a frog, no big deal, right? Well. I didn't think so. I started freaking out. Thought I was gonna drown, right there and then."

"Pff... aw, you poor thing." Gently she creases her lips with a thumb.

"Yeah... heh." One short, soft chuckle. "Wasn't such a bright kid, now was I? But I thought I was drowning, and honestly, I still remember what it felt like. Water in my mouth, water in my ears, water in my _eyes_... it was everywhere. I couldn't breathe—heck, I couldn't think if I thought I couldn't breathe. I was just flailing... this little frog, flailing in the water, overwhelmed, terrified, unable to comprehend all that water and all that weight... all that... oh, it was awful.

His deep, throaty voice scrapes to a halt. Remembering. Then it starts again.

"Just... please be careful out there. I'd be really sad if you went and died on me, okay? Just... I don't say these kindsa things often. So... don't expect it from me unless I really need you to know it. And I do."

His gaze goes off somewhere faraway and dreamy, his eyes curled over with the murky water of yesterday. Sad things, he's thinking of sad things. Quiet, staring at her toes, Lyla keeps to herself, thankful but embarrassed too.

"Drowning is... bad. All those thoughts, all those things... and you just can't grasp any of them. You're so lost... it's too heavy, you can't hold your breath, it's just gone... it's just..." He shakes his head, brusque now. "Oh, gosh... Be careful out there, Lyla. There's all kinds of ways to drown."

She can tell from that whisper, that breath, he's talking about more than water. His eyes fleck with glassy shards cracked at too many times; wisdom laces his throaty warble. His hands he's knitted together, his eyelids creased over those murky, murky orbs.

Oh... he's speaking from experience, isn't he? Aw... Camo... The poor guy...

It reminds her of sweet and helpless Fauna... sleepy and ignorant Deli... Jay...

and Lucha, on that first day, when she stepped into his home...

Oh, these poor people. These poor, poor people. Lyla stays quiet in courtesy of her friend, humming just soft enough for her to hear, to feel on her lips, and they stay awake until dawn's rose touch colors the sky.

They talk a little. Share other stories, less painful ones. He has this really funny anecdote about this one time when he took Nibbles to a restaurant and she accidentally spilled spaghetti all over herself.

Lyla wishes she had a band-aid, then. A great big white one. Soft. Comforting. One to protect the gentle, wounded pieces beneath and keep them safe. Safe...

She'll be a detective about Camofrog's life, too. She'll learn about him, too... if that helps any bit... she'll dive into those lives.

She's not smart enough to keep their injuries clean, kept without pestering. She has to...

See... it... it just seems right... right...


	25. And I Think You Don't Either

And I Think You Don't Either

There is a river sauntering through the misty little town of Wherford. It starts in the top-left corner, leisurely goes forward until pouring downwards some, turning forward—rightward—once again, in the middle of the town here, then moving upwards into a small lake area, then down and right and out again. Like a spiral it slopes through its lair.

This effectively splits Wherford into two nearly even halves, if not for their creaky old wooden bridges. On the north half, to the farthest right and nuzzled to the river's edge, in her little dip, is Fauna's home. Lucha and Freya live upwards from there, and leftward from them are Jay's and then Camofrog's homes. Above these is the town hall. Further down, below the river, is Nibbles, and below and left of that is Frita's. Further, further left is where Curlos and then Deli make home, and it is between the sheep's large gap where Lyla has made herself cozy.

She thinks it was a good place. Or at least... wasn't she the one to plant her home there? Heck. She can't remember. Since when has she remembered much of anything?

Not very smart either, if she apparently waltzed to the river and plopped in for a nap. In the middle of the night, no less.

Friendly, cuddly brown Curlos finds her story rather funny. They're sitting not too far from her house on his nice soft picnic blanket, drinking punch and eating his cookies. Admittedly Fauna's brownies are better, but not _that_ better, more like Curlos is an amazing baker but Fauna's legendary. Whatever, she thinks they're both great.

Lyla's not allowed out of her home much. It's what her dear, heartfelt friend Cammy—Camo—froggy woggy told her. Cammy's orders, eh? He told her to stop calling him that, but she won't until he stops force-feeding her that thermometer. And fruit. Euh. Okay, yeah, she was a little malnourished, _oops_. That doesn't mean he has to transform into her mom...

Curlos thinks this is hilarious too. He laughs _loudly_ when he thinks things are hilarious. Now, Frita, his sort-of opposite who lives not far enough from the bloke constantly complains about his laughter waking her up. She sleeps until noon apparently? Oh Lyla wishes. She can't hardly keep down two hours at this time. Sleeps like a monster. Feels like one, too.

Now, dear, sweet Curlos thinks her hair bands are working just as well as they always have, keeping her very-close-to-afro curls under enough control that she almost looks okay, or at least as normal as she always does. Good enough. Man, he's too nice for her. Especially after...

"Aw, Lyla! I know a lot's been going on lately, but don't try to look too glum, eh? We're still here for you, and just think of how many adventures we'll all have. So many it'll be unbearable!"

That makes her giggle. "Yeah! So many that, like... I dunno. It'll be great, though! I uh... totally!"

She pumps her fist in the air and the sheep raises his coffee brown hoof in turn. They fist bump. Fist hoof pump? More or less. The feeling is jolly and mutual, so.

"You know, Lyla, if your fever wasn't that bad... maybe you're just in loooove..." That sheepish grin of his makes the girl in question smirk.

"Um. No. Sorry?"

He offers a grin in turn. "Pahahahaha! That's sort of what I was expecting. But I had to ask~ Just... don't fall in love with me, okay? You'll only leave yourself with a broken heart."

Wait.

"See... well... hahaaa..." He gently, awkwardly pats at the brunette's head. "It's nothing much you need to worry about." That turns Lyla's brain off immediately. It's just... like, it's not something he's good at saying, okay? But girls won't... well, it's just like...

They leave it like that. Peacefully silent, side by side in the midday smile of sunlight slitting through the heavens... still puffy clouds poke over the sky. Lyla wonders again what sort of thing they just might be hiding... especially because in—well, _somewhere else—_ there were open friendly clouds with no secrets. These ones... oh, that's exactly it! Secrets!

Just like the citizens of Wherford... well. Other than Isabelle, she doesn't look like she's hid anything in a long time. And Lucha, now... y-yeah. Yes. And he's trying so hard and... he's changing so much. From what _was_ to someone dependable and priceless. Priceless Lucha... that has a nice ring to it. Why, yes.

Almost sounds like Princess Lucha: eh, that just makes it better.

It's still really hard to think about... them. She can't even utter the start of their name or she'll freeze over. Small steps, small steps. That's what Camofrog told her. In his mommy voice of course, which he said he didn't notice but Lyla swears she could hear it. Cammy, Cammy.

Only it's still so bright today, so warm, so open. The air is so... easy to breathe in, breathe out. It's not heavy, not misty. Though she doesn't... have anywhere to compare it to anymore. U-Ulh. There's Butterfly... but it's... it's not... it's really not! Oh, oh! She just can't... she must be a really big idiot, can't even get these thoughts out of her head. One step at a time, pshh... Face crumpled like a tossed newspaper, Lyla curls her legs up to her chest and places her pouting head on her knees.

Flowery pants today. Sunflowers to be specific. A tank top with some fancy cursive words she couldn't even read on it. But it's a comfy tank top, lace straps with flowers on them. It's lace and flowers, that's what Isabelle gave her. Lyla's throat does a double-take at the near utter of the name. Isabelle... she hasn't seen her fluffy friend in a few days now, not since she came back fainted from... well.

They stay in their spot as time ticks by. An eye-rolling golden sheep eventually passes them by. Gives Lyla a pat on the head. Manages not to start an argument with her relative. Lyla personally thinks they're cousins, but no one really knows.

Kind and zesty as sweet Frita is, her glistening eyeliner'd eyes always glance so pointedly into the faces of others... makes them feel threatened. It's... it's weird. Weird like a lot of things she'd started getting used to.

A bluejay jogs past them. Against herself, Lyla holds herself in wait for the _purph_ of Jay's trip and fall. She can't really get how... the others sort of ignored it? Lyla really wants to help the poor guy. When he falls in front of them, she practically shoves her punch-laden mug into his face and demands him to drink: then stuffs cookies into his beak when he's not paying attention to her.

It's weird. Their blue-feathered friend... Lyla can't really pick out what it is, but there's seriously something funny about the way he acts. She means, like, they're all like that... but she feels like she's nigh on the tongue of nipping what it is with Jay.

Hmm. Will Camo be proud of her? Maybe the next time he's around, she'll ask him about it. But somehow Lyla gets the feeling she'll forget and discard the notion before he's around... man. That's not good, but that's not completely bad, she guesses, since it'll be around there _somewhere_ , right? She's still alive. That means something.

Time again spins, its clock never-ending.

Right..?

She's never felt a day so warm to the touch in Wherford. It's always a little chilly, kinda wet. Halloween, wasn't it?

They wave cheerfully as Nibbles passes by in a great yellow dress, sunhat, and of course equipped with a watering can. All that rain and apparently their plants still need more. Lyla doesn't know. Everything's kinda messed up here. But it's more than here... ulh. Gently, painfully, Lyla folds her pale fingers over one another, laces them together, places them in front of her sandaled feet.

She prefers shoes on, thanks.

They wave off another villager, and another after that, just peaceful and quiet in the still and sweet air. The nice chill is welcome enough, so much warmer than their usual, eh? It's special. It's very special here. Oh, yes, the pale little girl knows that one for sure. As afternoon weans and Lyla can hardly keep her head on her shoulders, the kind sheep by her side rolls up their blanket and deposits leftover snacks, leading her toward her house with a tender arm.

He's a sweetie, that one. As Lyla flops into her bed, Curlos offers a soft little smile and tilts the door shut for her. As he exits and stares up into the horizon, one full of cottony clouds so ready to tremble apart, his smile loosens over his lips and he tips his head toward the earth for a moment.

Forgiveness. He can hear it, he can see it, he can feel it crawling within him.

Forgiveness, it has to be. He adds himself a mental note to tell Freya soon, grab Deli and force him over...

What a strange home, eh? A broken little grin, rueful and wishing, replaces his old teddy bear splendor.

The sheep softly shakes his head and walks his way off the porch.


	26. For Even with Pain

For Even with Pain

"Lyla." The brusque, clipped tone stirs the brunette from the reveries in her head. "You made a bad decision when you decided to play against me." Mmh? She snorts. Half asleep again. It's been hard to stay awake lately.

By now, she's wondering that too. What got her here in the first place? Why didn't she pass out at home and stay passed out? Heck inspired her to step outdoors?

Oh. Right. Because she heard footsteps outside, little hoofs digging into grass, dirt, standing their ground in the dawn. And it would be bad if that one innocent villager was left to rot outdoors. Alone. Oh, the filthy word uttered indeed! Maybe it's not a common thing for Frita to emerge early on in the day, but if she.. if she's gonna... well. Lyla's been passed out since yesterday afternoon anyways. Might as well join her, eh?

If there's anything she's learned, safety in numbers and the warmth of others really makes a difference.

So Lyla at least gets the interpreted feeling that the golden-furred sheep is thankful for her appearance. Uh, maybe. That just might be her all acting hopeful. Gives them a reason to play chess on the cliff in front of Frita's house, the one overlooking the beach and the big blue ocean below. Pretty. Sparkly. Why is it like that with water? Sparkly like magic, like fairies in the morning.

Cough. "Hey! Pay attention to me if you're going to play." Grunt. "If I'm playing with someone, no matter how bad they are, they might as well proffer some manners."

Lyla's ears go pink. Her fingers tighten around one of her dainty marble chess pieces, so cold and thin. Everything burns though, turns the queen to ice in her hands.

"Um. Sorry." She looks away again.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about," mutters the golden beast under her breath. She's in a long, thick, heavy scarf today, almost like a shawl. Sunhat, too. Sunglasses. Makes her eyes hard to glance into... makes Lyla a little nervous. She fidgets with the queen piece, slowly moves it north. You can move a queen like that, right? She can't remember.

Well no bother. Frita doesn't mention, hardly notices it. Blushing, the pale girl has a tough time letting go of her piece after plucking it. A cold core, heavy and strong. A little stony, a little frigid, but still the strong and overbearing queen...

Wait that's the queen right? It might be the king now that she thinks about it. Or one of the... knights? No wait it's not a horse thing... If there's anything Lyla knows it's what the horse thing is!

She wishes there were birds in chess. Lyla loves birds.

Warily she raises herself again—back straightening—to the sheep. Oh come on. Frita's still cool, she's just... interesting. Yeah, that. She's very, very interesting, now isn't she? Her horned friend grits her teeth and squints her brown face, plucking some doodad chess piece and like swinging it across some number of spaces and totally knocking over her queen.

Aw.

That makes Lyla sad.

"Stop pouting. Come on. Checkmate. You lose."

Lyla splutters. "Oh? Oh? Losing a queen does all that?" She stares painfully at the white marble piece that might possibly still be warm from her touch. Oh, she can't help how sad she gets, like... she loves that queen. She's suddenly very emotionally attached to that cold marble creature because it's _her queen_.

"Well. Yes and no. Losing a king does that. Losing a queen doesn't." Frita has a clipped tone, one pitched and pressed regularly that really gets Lyla's head spinning. Maybe... maybe that crazy sheep's doing it on purpose... oh, whoa. That thought, though. "I'm afraid you just lost the game, my friend. Err... wanna play aga—"

"Best three out of five."

"We've already played four matches and you lost all of them."

"Oh yeah." Darn. Now what? Has she been calling her king a queen this entire time? Well whatever. It's _her_ queen. "Ummm... wanna play another match anyways?" A sliding smirk slices over the sheep's lips.

She utters, near silent, "I wish I had that idleness flowing in my blood..."

"Eh?"

"Fifth match it is."

"Oh man!" She's got this. Be controlled. Be cool. You can do it, Lyla. "Neato!"

There is a small grin entranced like a spell upon Frita's warm, brown face now. The sun effectively sluices any cold stare into something melting and well-captured. Only once again, Lyla isn't paying enough attention to these kinds of things, so really it doesn't matter. It's funny though. She keeps losing and yet wants to play again: what kinda person is this girl? Frita hates losing. A lot. She only plays with people she knows can't beat her.

But they still win. Her teeth grind into one another quietly, with a _clik_. They still win, they always win. Lyla's winning right now. Her aquamarine gaze so much happier and healthier than it has been what with the whole Marsh disappearance. Ulh. Why can't Frita be like that? How does that girl _manage_?

She wants to be sweet, like Fauna, or well-disciplined like Jay. She wants to have a cute smile, she wants tame fur so she can wear all kinds of clothes instead of these _outrageous_ scarves. She wants, she wants, but she's herself instead. Hmng.

Quickly the sheep dispatches her unfocused opponent. Although honestly the girl hasn't been focusing since before Frita tried to teach her the rules, so whatever. She grunts. Plucks at the pieces as Lyla swings her feet over the edge of the cliff, stares into the golden sunlight.

What a contrast. Bags under her eyes suggesting weight. Lips pressed together suggesting pain. Shadows ripple across her cheeks and the sky plucks at them like stones in the water, but they go still again rather quickly, swallow the sunlight into nothing. Lyla's tucked her ravaging curls behind her ears to the best of her ability, her pale hands shaky in her lap.

Still she smiles. It's a small smile, certainly without its merits, but it's a smile still indeed.

Why? Oh how Frita wants to ask her. Why does she keep at this with all the violence that must be in her heart? Why can't—there it comes—why can't _she_ be like that? Why is _she_ so... urrhh!

But the sheep's taken more than enough of her aggravation on the girl already. Chastening. Forcing her to play chess in the first place. So she doesn't snap, at least not this time.

Slowly, motions edged with thick borders of hesitation, she slumps her own brown legs over the edge of the cliff. Sits right by humming-to-herself Lyla.

Her face stings. She clears her throat. Um. "Have you ever thought about running away, Lyla?"

"Whhh?" Her friend turns around, spluttering, the hum all but fallen off her lips. She puffs her cheeks. Forehead creased.

Oh geez. "Ah. Sorry. I don't mean it _that_ way. I mean... we've all left our homes, right? Moved out." Frita nearly slaps herself. Goodness. "That's not really what I was... referring to. Problems. Do you... ever think of running away from your problems? Hiding, trying to escape them?"

It sounds like a good idea, doesn't it?

For once Lyla's face pinches. "Um... not really." For once... "It's like... well, I'm here right?" she's made... "And why would I wanna leave? What would... make me wanna leave? Sure, like... there's heck going on but... heck is everywhere, eh?"

Choices, choices. So many to make... she's in pain, isn't she?

"Huh." Frita's nose twitches. "That's... one way to look at it." She looks away.

Lyla giggles. It's more to herself than anything.


	27. Is There Joy

Is There Joy

"I-I-Iiiiiiii!" Splutter, splutter, under the covers. "Freya, go awaaaayy!" She's biting at her lip ferociously, feeling a little massive and a little scary as she rustles and rustles beneath her hot blankets. Maybe it's not so much of a good idea... but... but she doesn't want that girl near her. She's... scary.

Lyla's scared.

She doesn't wanna be yelled at. Not like last time, that night... She's upset as it is... please, Freya, don't yell, don't yell...

 _PON-PON-PON_.

Ohhhhhhh... Quivering in her bed. Oh, no, oh, no. Maybe she should jump out a window, climb up the chimney. Out, out, out. Extreme measures welcome. Yes, _all_ extreme measures... oh. Hey. Is that a spoon in her bed? Oh, a _spoon_? Ohhhhh...

 _PON-PON. PON_.

Grunt.

Turn of the handle.

 _Rrrrrrrrg..._

Oh, no! She forgot to lock the door again! Freya's gonna get in! _Freya's gonna get in_!

She is scared. Beneath all of her panic and frenzy... she's scared. It's like a little seed she swallowed when her face hit the marshy ground a town used to stand on. It's like from then on she's been carrying this weight as it grew in her stomach... all this guilt... all this guilt...

"HA!" Sunlight glistens from behind Freya, casting her shadow like a cape upon the floor. Her pose suggests heroic, her lemon eyes fiercely twinkling. "Oh, dear... Lyla, where did you go?" She checks the capsized pillows and blankets torn around the bed. Carefully maneuvers her foot through the piles to make sure there isn't a girl-sized idiot curled up in one of them. Nope. Nothing. They collapse, leave her hands empty.

It's quiet.

 _Scrr-scrr-scrr-scrr..._

No. Wait. Almost quiet... what the heck is she _doing_?

Slow turn. The pink wolf slowly glances down from behind the bed, one hand on the frame and the other in her shorts pocket. Boots mark her work across the ground: _clk, clk, clk..._

And there sits the pale girl, eyes wide, spoon in her hand, digging into the floorboards and bending her plastic last resort.

"Oh my gosh. Lyla." Her face scrunches. She pops her hand onto her muzzle. Stares down at the sight. "That's not... Lyla. Are you even listening? And you're still wearing those pants... how long have you been wearing those pants?" The ones with the flowers on them? The lacy tank top with the words she couldn't define?

Sigh. "Oh, dear." Gently her paw scrapes beneath Lyla's arm, pulls the brunette up from her slumped spot on the ground. The spoon glides from her hands, through the air, and lands on the floorboards: _doink_.

"You're a meanie, Freya."

"Today we go to the third and final town that stands near Wherford." Head shake. Click of the tongue. Where's Camofrog when you actually need him?

Lyla's heart slams into her chest. Is this her punishment? Is she... is she supposed to go through everything that happened in Marsh again, only this time it's with a whole new town? And she knows... she knows the consequences... oh... oh no no no... she can't deal with this, oh, no... Freya, you're a monster, she just about says.

"No."

Sigh. "Come on, Lyla. You need the fresh air."

"No!"

Grunt. Freya begins to drag the pale little girl. She considers carrying Lyla over her shoulder, but with all that hissing and screaming and oh, that kicking... she doesn't wanna get punched in a place that'll really hurt, now does she? Snort. No, that wouldn't be a good idea. Well. One way or another, one foot in front of the other, she's walking them out that door. Opportunity.

The only true annoyance is how Lyla's home stands at the south of town... and it's at the very northern point where the train goes. Ulh. Time-consuming and tedious, surely to make Lyla a bigger mess than she already is... but worth it. Butterfly might judge, but Zoosis won't. And Zoosis is exactly where they're going.

It takes a lot of tugs. A lot. Freya underestimated how stupid Lyla was. And her weight. She's so small and thin and sick, and she really packs a punch... Darn. She thought about taking Fauna along with them too... oh, no way. No. Fauna doesn't need to see this... the poor, sweet girl... no, no...

She glances back at the weirdo in question who gives her the strangest stare.

Okay then, Lyla. Be that way. Whatever.

The clouds above them are comfortably thick. Like a blanket... or perhaps a very, very large band-aid. Still there are holes, oh those holes are so big... frantic glimpse to Lyla. Nah. She's in her own world...

They make it through the train station and into the town without so much as an incident. Freya's not sure if she's more surprised or relieved. This girl... she is a handful. Oh, she is such a handful. Although, who really is to blame for that? The girl, or... She gives a disgruntled glance to her paw, stuffs it in her pocket.

The other one's still tightly clasped about Lyla's pale wrist. There is a loud sigh from her baggage who slowly manages her stand up. She's got bits of grass all over her body, dirt smudges in all kinds of places, and... oh, wait, her hair's still the same. Just as curly and uncontrollable as it has been. Freya's thought about trying to straighten it... but she's also scared of the thought.

"Unnh..." A small head presses itself into Freya's shoulder.

She rubs at her cheek, eyes on the ground.

"We're not even there yet. Don't... don't get tired now."

A little more tugging and some form of convincing lands the both of them in a great gray structure. Here lies the midst of a still-sleepy town. Posters pockmark the walls, and throw rugs polka-dot the otherwise tile ground. In the very end of the structure, it opens up like a flower toward the heavens, a big black and mighty flower. All kinds of wires line this end area.

And this is where the only two villagers currently awake are.

Lyla winces. Tugs at Freya's sleeve. "Who's the guy with the scary face?" It's a whisper, but she's not sure if she was quiet enough.

"Lyla..!" The wolf rolls her eyes, shakes her head. "His name is Shrunk, and he is _not scary_." She whispers back hotly, "If anything, you're the scary one. Muck and grass... what are you, Lyla?"

"No..."

Snort. "Oh, come on..." Her voice is like a guitar, strong and yet mellow at the same time. It can bring people together and divide them. Soft and soothing yet zesty, glorious. The wolf just snorts and adjusts the choker around her neck. Lyla, wide-eyed, follows.

She halts, tugs on Freya's sleeve, whispers again, "Why are they dancing weird? Why are they dancing at all? What the heeeeeck? Waaahhyyyy?"

Freya halts too, nearly steps on the girl's stupid pale foot—bare again of shoewear. Didn't Lyla prefer to... no matter. "Lyla, stop complaining. I'm sure they'll be happy to meet you if you're not five years old by the time we get there." Yes, she _is_ annoyed. A low smirk addresses her lips as they finally reach the strange duo.

A girl and the Shrunk character. The girl's moderately blonde, wearing pretty cool clothes—and shoes—oop—Lyla winces in remembrance—and the other guy... well. Is he some... kind of lizard? No, salamander? Uhhh. Weird red frills sort of, like, stick out of his scaly—scaly?—pink face, and he's got the scariest unibrow. The orange suit clashes with everything. She turns away. Can't look, can't look. Freya elbows her and she squeaks.

"Hmmm?" That weird dancing girl is the first to notice them. A slap of heat scalds Lyla's cheeks. "Who're yoouuuuu? You look fun. Wanna dance?" Splutter. What no. There she is, fidgeting in place. Feeling like the biggest idiot once more. Oh, man.

The boy—the Shrunk character—is cheerful, greets them with, "Oh, hello, there! Nice to see you, Freya! Man, if only you came a little later, my wife and kids are still asleep..." Soft laughter.

Wait. Wife and kids.

Lyla takes another good look at the guy.

 _Wife_ and _kids_.

Freya very harshly elbows her.

"Heeey, what's with the face? Are you guys tired too? I swear, everyone in Zoosis stays up way too late, ahaha..." Blink. "Oh, oh! I'm Josie, by the way. It's super nice to meet you!"

Lyla's hands rub at her eyes. She's not feeling up for these loud voices. Feels like she's gonna explode or something... but... but... curiously she peeks out at the pink-furred friend beside her, she messing with her choker again. Embarrassed? Aw, oops.

It was nice of her to well... take her here. Get poor, stupid Lyla out into the fresh air for once. Fresh air... idly she wonders then, what the heck is Wherford's? It's so heavy... it's not heavy here, no, not at all. Flowers so springy even without a cloud in the sky... bright and warm... slowly and surely, summer is moving.

Hotter and hotter, wherever Wherford isn't.

Embarrassed suddenly, Lyla grabs at Freya's silk sleeve again and hides herself behind the wolf, making a squeak noise every now and then. The wolf laughs just softly. Her paw pats at Lyla's curly hair.

"Yeah, I know. It's hard sometimes..."


	28. Hope

Hope

With the weather so thick and heavy, prepping for summer everywhere but here, Wherford strings its trees with lights. They're connected by wires, pumpkin lights, and little pumpkin lanterns like apples in trees—just as common as them, too. So many apples in this old town, it must've once been an orchard or something. What a sweet, innocent little thought...

Sweet and innocent like the pies a certain doe has been slaving at all morning, and surely will be until tomorrow too. Pies are fun, and a festival is coming up of sorts, so she tries her best to make as many apple pies as she can... sweet and innocent and defenseless, humming to herself as she works...

The air for once is cleaner, soft, sugary like the deliciousness coming. Some are planning to dress up in big, scary costumes while others would rather some quiet socializing. It doesn't really matter in the end. Halloween is quite a common holiday as it is. It's fun to spice things up sometimes... although really the only change to come is the girl.

Oh, the girl. She has no idea, doesn't she? Clueless to the pit of her brain. Stupid. Yes, stupid. How delightful. She still has yet to find inklings of guesses rippling in the black, murky water this town sits in all day and night... still can't guess what's going on behind those clouds up there. Secret, secret? Oh?

Just like the bird. Feelings locked in one's heart, hiding fruitless in one's soul. No escape, no escape. Oh, the other bird. He's another story... but this one stays silent and jogs, jogs and trips and falls so much, so hysterically...

That she must see. Oh, yes. That much is obvious enough.

Then there is the sheep—the female. What is it with _her_ , too, eh? Particular, annoyed... _I want this, I want that_... oh, do you? What a strange thing to wish for... why might that be? Oh, why? Are you... jealous? Why the envy, dear? Why the _envy_?

Oh, psh. The monkey's sleeping again. It's not that ignorance is strength, no; avoidance? Oh, no. He's seen her, he's seen their newbie. What does he think? Monkey never tells.

And the squirrel, cannot forget the squirrel... there she is, picking out her clothing and assembling it into a cute, cute costume. A leap out the door, running to the river, yelling across it for her boyfriend to check out her clothes, make sure she's precious. Why, if they say she loves friends so much, hasn't she come and seen their newbie hardly once?

Hmp? Why all that work on Lucha?

Not that Lucha has anything notable to say about him. Pff, no. Once...

Aren't they all strange little ones? No, not special, that's another thing. A very different thing. Why would they be special if they're here, anyways? What makes it so _special_?

Ah. There she is. Little doggy trotting back from a trip to the train station, paws laden with cute little bags reading frivolous things like _Gracie's Boutique_ from some nearby town. Buys herself a new costume every year, uses a lot of their money on it too. Not that anyone complains. Poor thing. Big blue eyes, quick movements, fast and darting into the town hall, door locked shut, not to be see again once more.

Oh, what's that? Lucha. Psh. Of course. Wandering up to the town hall, knocking, asking Isabelle—he blushing—if he can use her telephone. She's quiet with her nod, quiet to let him in... like she's sad? Hmmm, _why_ might she be sad?

There they go...

Slowly the door of the house further below manages its creak open. The girl steps out. Running shoes, jacket large enough to almost hide the fact that she's still wearing her dirt-smudged and grass-flecked pants and tank top. As weird as they all are, she might as well be the weirdest. Same clothes for days straight, nearly drowning herself, running around with her fever...

Stupid. Isn't that the word for it? Stupid, forgetful Lyla.

It's who she is.

She walks herself down to Curlos's house, loudly knocks, and enters soon after. A small puff of flour follows her closing of his humble abode's door. The air is filled with spices and sweets, all smelling so... captivating, would it be? There aren't so many people that come to their Halloween—why would they want to be in Wherford? But there are a few. There are a few who always enter on such a holiday and their monthly excursions.

Doesn't have to be a Saturday.

Eventually Lyla takes her leave, stumbling over near Deli's place, sitting by his favorite apple tree, finding him in the branches, nearly asleep—unsurprisingly. He snorts and giggles at her struggles to scale, too, leaving her tired and mopey on the ground. He hops off, joins her. She's alive, then.

"Deli, Deli! There's so much fun in all the preparation, oh wowwwww! What're you gonna do on Halloween?"

"Eat everyone's sweets," he answers with a grin, "and maybe dress up, heh, we'll see~"

Sure, there's all kinds of stains all over her now. But even when she first plopped that top over her body, even on that first day, she couldn't read what it said. Still can't now. Maybe she never learned cursive.

What kind of sweet, carefully-drawn words might be written on there for her?


	29. And All Kinds of Feelings

And All Kinds of Feelings

Everyone's been so busy. Stringing up lights and, like, making food and, like, costumes... and so it's been a little difficult running into anyone who can bear the responsibility of Lyla. The brunette's been wandering about town a little haplessly, still stuck in her grimy clothing. She hasn't really thought about it. Might explain why she hasn't changed.

If anything, Lyla's just tired. She thinks she's found some form of recovery from all that's been going on, but at the same time she's confused, too. What caused Marsh's downfall. What's up with the atmosphere here. And of course, as she has been wondering on and off since she first arrived and met them: why _are_ her neighbors so... It's, it can't just be that they're a little weird! She's met... all kinds of weird people! It's special. She thinks. Somehow. Maybe...

But she's quick to forgetting, to stop questioning their ways. Doesn't think about it enough... hnn...

Camofrog... he said—no, wait, _she_ said they were almost like play detectives into the lives of the others... but... like...

Oh, she doesn't know. It's upsetting. Yeah...

Wasn't Lucha around here somewhere? At least he was at some point. He was kinda scary at first, but he's just all of a sudden really changed. But he's trying, for sure, and he's sweet. That strawberry red bird friend of hers is really trying. Isn't he? She's not completely sure what it is that takes Lucha's focus to such levels... but he is trying. There's a lot of devotion in him.

"Hmmmn... I'm so bored... why'd everyone have to go and do dumb stuff? Now I'm lonelyyyy. That makes me saaaaaaaad..!" Nah. Nobody's around. Aw.

Although complaining into thin air probably won't get her anywhere. At least even if the others are paying more attention to their weird decorations for their funny celebrations—so much for one little day—they're outdoors, they're around. Oh. Yeah. That would be bad if Lyla started wandering on her lonesome into the night.

But they're busy. Which is depressing. "Oh oh ohhhh! Hey Freyaaaaaa! Freya Freya Freya Freya Frey—"

"HUSH. LYLA I'M BUSY."

"—aaaa..." Aw well that's sad. Not even her friendly wolf friend has time for her? Well then... then... then she'll just have to... like... uh... uhhhh...

"Oh, goodness. Lyla, I don't have time for you. Go whimper somewhere else."

The big pout on Lyla's face doesn't wear away. Hookay. Yeah. Freya's trying. Fun. But but still. Now Lyla's really sad. Her curly hair, stuffed into their bands, wriggle about her shivering figure. She is a little cold. A little sad. Okay, really sad. She doesn't feel very loved now. Muttering to herself, the girl slowly wanders on. Freya doesn't register her clothing or how filthy it's become, or how those are the pants she wore when...

Maybe Lyla doesn't see it either.

Angrily she tosses her head up to the sky, where big bulky clouds suggest soon and heavy rainfall. "S-Stop mimicking me," she mumbles, rubbing at one swollen, sleepy eye. She does sight, just down the road, a glowing home full of golden windows that must mean lots and lots of light... The humble abode is warm and running... so that does mean someone is home. Oh. Oh man. They're probably gonna hate Lyla for intrusion but someone is home! Ohhh, someone is home! Lyla's gonna go toss herself at them so bad!

Doesn't bother knocking. Just tumbles through the door. Luckily she's not the only one who forgets to lock... unless Fauna intentionally doesn't. Lyla, scrubbing at her shifty cheeks, notes the spotless and sweetly cleaned doe in front of her, those spots of hers like marshmallows in the hot chocolate coat of her shining fur.

Sweet gaze, soft and gentle. "H-Hi! L-Lyla, I wasn't expecting you to come in!" Soft laughter. "I'm just baking. Once these pies are out of the oven, I should only have one more batch to go. Umm..."

Wordlessly her eyes assess the pale girl's very lacking figure. The twigs, the cuts, the grass, the dirt, the... um... ew. Sorry sweetie, but you smell purgatorial. Ulh, that arid scent.

The gentle _ding_ from the oven gives Fauna a good five seconds to herself, heaving, breathing in and out all that oven steam. It burns at her lips and it burns down her throat but it's not the mess in front of her so it doesn't matter. Frantically the doe plops her pies on top of the stove and lashes a hoof out to her closet, which she mindlessly begins sifting through.

Shirt, shorts, soap... conditioning, cloths... towel...

All of these items are tossed without care at Lyla. She catches none of them, begins to lower herself to Fauna's carpeting in order to pick them—

"Aaahhh! I-I-Iiiiiiit's f-f-fine Lyla I-I'll get them!" The sweatered little girl, just hardly shorter than Lyla, pulls herself beneath that grimy face and plucks up her items and in a more or less handful then shoves them into the girl's hands. She's blushing heavily. Lyla's staring into the heavens... or something.

"U-U-Umm... C-C-Curlos is the one wi-with the huge ba-ath but it doesn't matter pleaaaa-aa-aase j-j-just hop in the ri-iiver and clean yourself ple-please!"

Fauna nearly bursts into sobs as the brunette very gently shuts the door behind her. Accidentally slams it shut, sends the girl into slight hysterics. "Nnnnnh!" She rubs at her bright cheeks and teary gaze. "Fa-Fauna... pull yourself together... it's no big deal..."

She's quick to calming. While she can be startled—her emotions on such a range that they rival Isabelle's sharp heart—it doesn't take very long. Fauna settles, finishes mixing up her ingredients, pours the conglomeration into some pans, and plops them into the oven. Sets the time. Start.

Slowly she falls into a chair and sighs. Relief, oh sweet relief. She's been aching a little since all that pie-baking, but she knows how much the others will love them. And that's important. Just in case... they're all very, very nice, aren't they? All very nice people... Fauna's happy they all moved in, she loves each and every one of them!

Heh... she smiles ruefully at the carpet Lyla squashed dirt into.

If only Keke would live here, too... then it would all be perfect... yes, perfect...

Freya thinks that she's too... lax with her ideals. That she's... not safe. That she should at the very least lock her door at night. To be safe. She thinks that's safe. But, but what if someone needs her help late at night? What if... someone's out there—what if Keke shows up? Oh, what of Keke? She loves her best friend, she loves Freya, but what of him, or anyone else who appears in the midst of the darkness..?

Freya thinks that she's too soft, too. It worries her. Fauna feels bad knowing that her dear, spunky friend, her beloved friend she's known for so long, that she worries so much about it... but Fauna will be okay! Don't worry about her! But... but Freya still does. It makes her a little sad.

Gently the doe lifts a book from the nearby table, gently she flips over the worn pages with their folded edges. She's read this story so many times... but it's her favorite. It speaks to her. Almost as if she hears the author's gentle voice whispering into her ear every time she reads... only the author consists of all of her closest loved ones combined. Comfort. She loves that sort of comfort.

Her caramel gaze, soft and sweet, extends upon the pages. Giggles at the silly conflicts. A squeak from the climax. Happily ever afters, harmonious The Ends. It's everything she's always dreamed of, wrapped up into a cover. Soft and warm and friendly like her dear, dear lover... but it makes her think of more than just that. Oh, yes. Safety. Sweet love and safety... warmth. A place to call home.

The illustration by the title depicts of roses held in the gloved hands of a princess. But not a greedy princess, a sweet one who in the end finds herself in a warm and happy place, loved and loved, surrounded by the beauty she so deserves...

Nevermore helpless, the towers thick and strong. Naught for defenseless, the guards for so long... safety.

And the prince is just adorable. Oh, he is, yes he is! Makes her giggle all over again...

Sopping wet, her hair for once manageable, Lyla finds herself in a warm, sweet atmosphere that quickly begins to make do with her poorly-dried body. She's in a sweater and shorts. The sweater itches.

But there's soft little Fauna, tucked away with a book in her chair. The sight just warms her heart. Home tasting of cinnamon and apple, gentle and sweet. That wistful smile on her soft brown lips.


	30. So it's Dangerous Then

So it's Dangerous Then

"Oh, _Lucha_! I never understood why you could stand to be with someone like poor Deli and live with all these poor villagers if you're always locking your door and hiding in your home! _Lucha_! They want to see you! _I_ want to see you!" _PON. PON. PON._ "C-Come onnn! I'm your _sister_... ohhhh my goodness."

Huh. That sounds like a lot of fun. Like a lot of fun Lyla should totally get herself into.

So that's why she couldn't find him before. Apparently he was... welcoming the strange pink bird now in front of his house? Fun. Yeah. Let's go, man. She thought she'd visit Isabelle, but the town hall's kinda quiet right now, and everyone's probably busy... so yeah! Let's go, man! Lucha, here she _comes_ , look out!

Just above Freya's metal-lined home, door playful blue with that broken-heart hole, there lies the black door with the red roof, red roof for _Lucha_. Pink for Freya, red for he. Strawberry red, should Lyla add. It's a special color, and she's noted that it's one of the more used in her painted home. Gosh. When was it painted? Who painted it? It's dry now, thank goodness; she has all kinds of splotches on the bed.

There's a few other sparse things in her home. Her bed's pretty much the only thing so far.

There's an upstairs too. She's saving it for something special... if she remembers. Please remember.

Gently the wet girl—whatever, she smells like paisleys... least that's what the bottle said—slowly creeps her way over to the strange, pink bird. She's a little larger than the owner of the home, and she certainly dresses different. Blue tank top spangled in white flowers, small spunky skirt. No sign of... magical horse girls... or whatever it was. Is she really sure that wasn't a unicorn anyways?

"Um!" Oh that catches her some attention rather nicely. "H-Hi! I'm Lyla! Who're you!" Aw nice. She mostly had good manners.

The bird has the white feathers around her face very similar to Lucha's, and her eyes are dark like silver, as well similar to him. The pink, while it's not red... it suits them. She can just _tell_ they're related. Though Lucha's wings are that weird navy blue—whatever. The bird squeaks—"Ahh! Hi! It's very nice to meet you! I'm Midge... Lucha's older sister."

She glares then at the black door that has yet to open.

"Lucha! Dear, you're the one who called me and you treat me like this? Lucha! Open the door!"

His soft whisper shoves against the wood. "I-I change my mind. Go home."

"LUCHA!" Bright red blush burns across her cheeks. "One of your friends is here too! Be a dear, Lucha, won't you?" A low smirk slides upon her face and slowly the bird sighs. She offers a small glance to Lyla, who just sort of shrugs. She's known Lucha for like a week or two now?

Midge's voice lowers. While akin to her younger brother's—older by three or four years, maybe?—it's sweeter and more thoughtful than his. Without stutters, at that. Stutters wouldn't fit in such a tone. "Excuse him. He's such a... such a derp! Eheh..." A sad little shadow crosses her face. "But I guess he can't blame himself..." Pause.

"Are you always so quiet?"

Lyla blinks. "Ehh? I mean, I talk, I guess, but... yeah? Sort of..? I'm not very loud... ahahaha, _no_." Not very smart, either. Can't remember much to save her life. But... but she remembers something. She remembers—she remembers when she was really sick, and really not doing well... she remembers Lucha being his "derp" self and Deli laughing... and then she was laughing, and that made her happy.

Why of all things would such a moment come to mind..?

Head shake. "I'm not very loud."

"Heh. That's alright. Lucha isn't very loud, either." Her sad smile further slopes into a frown. "No, he always had a soft voice... I remember our mother and I would sometimes ignore it. Heh... it wasn't a very nice thing to do, but we had shopping, we had clothing, we had a lot to do and our father'd only passed at that time very shortly ago...

"It was very hard on him. I remember it clearly... Lucha was always an odd one, especially growing up with a bunch of girls and only Deli to compensate, but he always looked forward to letters from Dad..." Sigh. "I don't think he cares that much—about the things we might have done when we were all younger, that is. We would watch anime together sometimes, haha... I'm afraid his little affection for it soon became more a bad addiction than anything else." Oh... aw. Wow... you don't look at the bird and think of all those things...

Soft giggle. "Oh, sorry. You're just so peaceful and easy to talk to..." Oh, that's very sweet of you to—

But. Wait. Addiction. Anime. Lyla slowly blinks. "Oh, that? Um..." This is gonna be weird to explain.

 _BONK._

"Lucha? What are you doing, hitting your head against your own door?!"

"Oh Lyla please don't tell her I'm gonna die of embarrassment."

Hm. It sounds like she should tell his sister. "Midge, your brother is purging himself of said addiction! He's been getting rid of all his—"

"OH LYLA PLEASE STOP SHE'S GONNA KILL ME!"

"LUCHA? WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?"

"OH, NO!"

Out of fear or something, his wings go fumbling and he goes running but on the way to who-knows-where he'd accidentally unlocked his door. Midge smirks. Nods to Lyla. She hefts a bag she'd left near the ground—wow, why'd it take her that long to notice? Such a cute tote. It's one of those with the sun on it, only the sun's in sunglasses.

The two waddle in together. Seeing what he'd done, Lucha's face blares red, all across his white-feathered mask-like cheeks.

In fact, his room has cleared. The windows are big and gaping, gulping in sweet air and sunshine. The walls while bare for all but two posters are friendly, with a funny brown motif on them. A nice wallpaper. Two small rugs tossed on the ground, a wooden paneled floor. A bed in one corner. Why does everyone do that? Lyla doesn't. And then there's... oh?

A small volleyball in the corner. It's worn out and covered with pink marker, but that's a volleyball alright. Beside it there's a small shovel, a bucket. A chest that could hold all kinds of things beneath the left window. While plushes of those scary big-eyes small-body creatures dominate his pillows, there are all kinds of sweet little trinkets loitered about as well.

Midge smothers her brother.

Oh that's what he meant. She's smothering him with affection, but still. Oh gosh. Tight hugger. Pecking his cheek fiercely. Pshh, oh—I-missed-you-Lucha, all the sort.

"G-G-Get off, Midge," he mutters, "there's like someone else in the room too..."

"Oh yes, I know!" Giggling, she eventually does release him. Huh. Why did Lucha never grow taller than his older sister? Well, yeah, older, but he's a _boy_. Boys do that. Even Curlos managed to scale past Frita.

Well that's okay. Lyla's pretty short too...

She won't mind...

Lucha, spluttering, pushes at his older sister. "Mi-Midge. S-Seriously. Stop. You're gonna, like, ki-ill me... nnnnf." He shakes his head, points awkwardly at the girl in the room. "I told you to bring that old costume, since, y'know... Lyla wouldn't understand Halloween or anything. I-I mean _our_ Hallowen. And um..."

He's blushing too angrily to speak.

Midge giggles. "Oh, don't mind him, Lyla. He does this when it comes to anything outside his comfort zone—which unfortunately is most everything. But isn't it so cuuuuuuute?" She once again tosses her arms around her little brother.

"Mii-iiiiiii _iiiiidge_! _Whhhhaaaaaa_!"

Softly Lyla giggles in turn. Oh, so... in the sun bag—there's a-a Halloween costume in there—for her? She stares with very wide eyes at the mystical thing that might be inside. Midge is a sort of soft but also cool kind of girl, so Lyla's not expecting a fairy costume or anything... but... but still! Wow! She never even thought that Lucha would... consider that. Huh. Poor guy. He must be ready to pee himself. Awww.

Not until now did she remember that they are birds... oh how Lyla loves birds... Soft and flowing in the wind, uncontrolled, free...

Free...

What is it, about freedom..? About release..? Soft and flowing, uncontrolled..?


	31. When Some of These Go Missing

When Some of These Go Missing.

"Oh my _goodness_. You guys really go all-out when you say you will! I'm like... overwhelmed over here, wow!"

It was sort of Freya's fault. Lyla goes wandering out of Lucha's place last night with her new Halloween costume in hand—Freya just gives her a look and somehow manages to force her to stay overnight with she and Fauna. In Fauna's house of course. There are... too many pies to carry. Fauna thinks they'll all be gone by the end of the day.

What? Okay then? _What_?

So with a fresh, almost minty feeling in the black-clouded air and too many pies stacked in their arms, the three go wandering through their transformed Wherford.

Okay this is insane. It's just one holiday. Right? She means, yeah, do what you want. But like... black clouds burbling in the air like nature is with them too. All those lights in all those trees. Funky music streaming from a certain white dog by one of the chairs. Tables and games and food and scary costumes and... apparently it lasts all day. Lyla's not sure if she'll make an hour. Tops.

Hey, wait... that curly-haired boy... is that..?

No not Bruce. Though she saw him around here too. She's talking about the _other_ boy. She can't remember his name at this time... when Lyla mumbles it over her pies, Freya's patting pink paw steers them in a wide berth around him. "You might've just seen a weird tree branch, Lyla. Don't worry about it."

"Awww, dearie, don't be scared! Freya will keep us safe from anyone who dares dress like a werewolf!"

Lyla chokes on her tongue. "Werewolf? We-Werewolf? What? Why?"

"Fauna's scared of werewolves. Long story." Freya continues her casual shoving... wait if she has two arms and they're both carrying pies, how does she have room to keep nagging on Lyla? Yeah, she needs the nagging... but still! Freya, what are you? "Lyla. Lyla! Don't turn around! You'll send the pies everywhere and Deli will kill you." Another shove for good measures.

Freya is like incredible. She does everything and still gets a full night of sleep. Right? Right. Yeah...

And then they do nearly run into someone. Bright blue feathers, even beneath that creepy mask—wait, what the? Jay? What? "Yeeeeek!" He goes splintering back from them, rubbing at his face—or the mask. Why the mask?

"Is that some attempt at a mummy?" murmurs the wolf. A low smirk follows suit.

"Ye-Yes it is!" And then he goes running. Hey... isn't Camofrog's house around here somewhere too? Lyla means, yeah, they're gathering in the northern area this time—this time?—just how many times do they celebrate Halloween if they're always changing things?—like what? Still. Northern. They're almost where the tables are, where they set down the pies and Lyla tries not to get too tired just yet.

Finally. Oh sweet relief.

 _Plurp, purshhh..._ Gently she helps smooth them out, settle them out—pies stacked on top of each other won't last for very long. And then she takes her seat. Picnic tables are so neato with their built-in bar thingy where you sit. And you can fit all kinds of people in them since there's less a restriction. Which is _so_ neato.

Casually a shorter figure sits beside her. Murky orbs travel over her much-cleaner face. "Hmm... are you feelin' any better, Lyla? Don't go lying to me now."

Oh, gosh, that concern. It's making her all embarrassed...

"Y-Yes, Camofrog! I-I-I _am_ doing like _so_ better, tha-thanks. Um... thanks for looking out for me, keeping me from drowning, force-feeding that thermometer down my throat... f-for all that. I'm sure I wasn't fun to... um... babysit." She stares very focused at the near-black grass on the ground. It's so ferociously spooky today...

Curiously she peeks over at his costume. Whoa. Wait. Powder-blue suit, small crown in between his big Camofrog eyes, and a wand or something in his hand. "Ummmm, what the heck are you dressed as?"

"I have no idea myself." Annoyed sigh. "Nibbles went through her closet because apparently I have to dress up and I have to wear something she thinks will be perfect... and matching to hers..." Eyeroll. "I dunno. We don't need to match, do we? Whatever. This happened. I think she's dressed as a princess. I can't honestly tell."

Wide-eyed nod. "Uhh, what do you usually dress as?"

"Whatever she says." Laugh. "I don't mind, don't worry about me. It's kinda fun letting her play dress-up anyways. Though I do sometimes get a break, we just chill at my house or somethin'..." Softly the frog yawns.

"Why would you... uh... miss out on an entire holiday? Don't they only, like, come around once a year or something?"

She's lost. Hopelessly lost. Camofrog gives her a blink, opens his mouth—when a buzzer goes off from somewhere.

Oh, in the hands of that dog over—wait that is _not_ Isabelle. No. Brown dog. White bit of fur around the middle of his face in stark and crisp clothing. Well obviously someone didn't dress up, aw. The blue-eyed, golden dog by his side happens to be in a dog onesie—this one spotted brown and white—and somehow looks adorable on her. But then again she _is_ Isabelle.

A shy glance pierces into Lyla's face. Blush. Sigh. Oh... she's got a tote in her hands. Now it goes behind her back. Huh...

"Lyla?"

"Mmmmh? What, Camo?"

"What the heck are you dressed as, exactly?"

Small smile. "I can't really tell, either. I think it's some sorta fairy." Fairies have wings, too. Like birds. But they're not real, are they? Pixies and sprites... are they? Lucha's real, and so is Midge... birds are very real. Well. Today she can be that fairy.

The buzzer goes off a second time. Camofrog grunts—annoyed?—annoyed.

"U-U-Uuuummm! He-lllo, e-e-everyone!" Isabelle has her fluffy yellow cupped about her face, her face so blushing pink and red, almost like the middle of a flower. "Toodaaaaay i-i-is the Halloween festival I'm... I-I'm sure you've _all_ been waiting foor! S-So... let it be-begiiiiin..!"

She doesn't offer a second glance toward Lyla, eyes so squinched and dull that it's almost like now she's avoiding her. Oh no. What did she do? Did Lyla mess up again? She can't tell.

Eventually a turquoise-furred friend shows, practically floating in her pompous blue dress, so well-stitched and topped off with a crown and wand-like thing as well. She must be a... a princess? Well. If Camofrog is a prince. Unless Nibbles is queen. Man, that'd be something. Giving Lyla a funny little stare, she wraps her paw about Camofrog's and pulls him up with her, and off they go. He manages a wave before being carried away.

Freya and Fauna may have well as melted into the night—they've gone off somewhere. But then Keke's gone wandering too... with them? With Fauna? Freya doesn't seem to like him that much. Well, if she ever sees a werewolf, it shouldn't be too hard to find the tall, pink-furred lady dressed in red. Freya's... what was it called... Little Red Riding... Wolf? Uh. Freya looked it at least. And Fauna's in an adorable dress too, but she's more like a shepherd, with the funny curvy stick and all. And bonnet. Fauna rocks bonnets.

Hm... maybe she should stay in place until someone else comes her way... to be safe, right? Freya told her she should do that if she ever gets lost again. So, well.

"...ure about that? Are you really sure? I don't know if it fits very well... Deli, your height is a little shorter than Lucha's, as well as being a little monkey, and I'm not sure if he's faring well in that suit."

"Wings don't make clothing choices thaaaaaat difficult, do they?"

"I'm a girl. Deli, I know these things. You've been around me for the most of your life and how particular did Mom and I have to be when shopping? Quite! Quite."

"Hnm. Well Barbara always was like that, always particular, y'know. I on the other hand grew up in a pretty chill family."

"Yes, I know, I know... oh. Oh goodness. Deli. I don't think he should be wearing the mask."

"Hm? Oh. Oh! Yeah! Get the mask off him! I don't think he can breathe!"

 _Fshhhh!_ Something akin to a popping noise ends the little skirmish.

"AHHHHHHH! I AM NEVER WEARING ANOTHER ONE OF YOUR COSTUMES AGAIN!"

Deli smirks, giggles. His brown face pitches over in all sorts of shades with the light of pumpkin lanterns overshadowing it. "Well excuse me for helping you throw out all of your old ones!"

Lucha blushes. "I didn't throw them out... I just gave them to Nibbles, sh-she said she'd figure something out with... spare pieces... o-or something. G-Give me a break, I had to give away, like, the vast majority of my clothes only a few days ago. I'm wearing a very strange combination of my old skinny jeans, some old tank tops, your... things, Freya's jackets, and we're trying to get stuff out of Jay but he won't let us in his house." His face pinches.

Oh, oh! Lyla squeaks softly, way too happy. "Luchaaaaaaa! Oh my gosh, hiiiiiiii!" She throws herself at her friend into a sudden but warm hug. Then steps back. If there's anything she knows, the sister by his side showers him with too much affection as it is.

He's in a... superhero costume. And so is Deli... they're, like, almost matching, sort of? But not quite, too. The monkey's has a sort of hoodie that could wrap over his face—which he didn't do, smart—and Lyla's guessing Lucha's works like that too and... realized it was a... bad idea. Yes. Very bad. Very.

"Oh, hello Lyla!" Midge then gives _her_ a hug. Oh, wow, she smells really nice, that perfume she uses is... wow! "How very nice to see you again! Oh, do you like their style? Deli always had a slight liking for superheroes, mostly their costumes and the like when it came to this sort of holiday, so he had to lend Lucha one after his... idiotic toss of most his items." Smirk. "Do you like them? Oh..." She draws a blank.

Softly the monkey pushes past her, pointing at his purple suit and slightly at Lucha's mellower blue. "We're the Sunderre Twins! I can not remember what their powers are! Wait, uh. Maybe it was something like harnessing the weather? Yeaaah..?" He glances back at the bird.

Lucha offers his best clueless stare back in turn.

"Owww. You could've just said something, Luchie."

Blush. "S-Sorry."

"Ahaha..." Deli winks back at their fairy-dressed friend. "Lyla, you should really try teasing him sometime! It's way too fun. Hahaha... oh, hey, Lucha, there's the pies. You guys go ahead, I'll be right behind you!" He elbows slightly at the bird siblings who, while somewhat bemused, do move on, give him some space.

Whoa. Has she ever seen that kind of concern in those amethyst eyes? Maybe... maybe when they found Lucha nigh unconscious on the front porch. Yeah, after their sleepover, that time ago... "Are you, uh... doing any better?" Sigh. "It wouldn't be good if you weren't feeling up to it now, eh?"

Ummmmm!

Well. She was not expecting that. Moving on. "I um... y-yes! I am feeling alright. Th-Thanks." He did visit her earlier, only makes sense he'd get a little worried... Lyla was not in mint condition at that time. "At least, doing better than I was, yeah? Hahaha... Thank you for checkin' on me when you did, it meant a lot."

They share a small knowing smile.

"Well. Don't just thank me. It was a very weird combination of my convincing and Lucha's inner heart that got us there in the end." Small doff of the head, hand on her shoulder, just a moment, and a passing.

Apparently when they said games, they meant games. All kinds of games. Tag and hide-and-seek—Lyla thought about the first one but ultimately settled with the second. She wasn't sure if it was a good idea with all the lanterns, but Nibbles did find her first.

More than just running around. Someone brought freaking bingo cards, and one of the little things where you churn the wheel and choose a small number or whatever inside. Only this was Halloween bingo, and there were... a lot of strange little motifs. Ghost, black cat, full moon, candy... She'd needed this one square, it was like a frankenstein thing or something, she can't tell, but nice old Curlos never called it.

She thinks Curlos brought the cards. He's the type.

For some reason he bleached his fur and put brown makeup all over his face. Even painted over his pale horns to include stripes. And Frita, most strangely, had dyed her fur—and straightened it—and added white powder stuff... foundation to her face, foundation to her horns. Was it foundation?

She likes them when she knows which one she's talking too. He looks like Frita and acts so friendly and she wants to die the headache is so bad, it's way too confusing for her.

Run away from your problems... wasn't that what she asked? Hmmn.

All kinds of games and candy and all kinds of wild, jubilant fun... all kinds of pie. They live off of pie for the day. Which is cool. Really cool. But the time of course comes where Lyla's just so tired and just so weak that she has to sit down and breathe some. She has no endurance. Her head is throbbing from all kinds of fun. She's shaking—just a little. Where did Lucha go? Dunno. He's nice, though. She likes being around him, even if he is a derp... o-or whatever.

And where has Isabelle been, too? Lyla... wanted to find her after that helpful announcement. Apparently it woke up those still sleeping... uuuuf... where is Isabelle? She's not allowed to d-disappear like that. She's making this pale little girl worry, all curled up and sad, head on her knees, knees to her chest, arms bundling it all together.

 _Bon_.

There is a hand on her head. And it's not furry, and it's not Camofrog's small, lotioned amphibian fin, and it's not anything else she can come up with. But a human hand, right? It's a big hand too. Wow. A little heavy.

Black eyes catch her stare. A thin, pale smile extends across his elegant, narrow face.

"Why hello. Do you remember me?"

Oh, oh, oh. She knows this one. Ohhhhh! Yeah! Yeah! The guy—the guy! The guy with the curly hair who isn't Bruce! Where did Bruce go anyways? She saw him a couple times... tall, reading glasses on, for once. Wasn't he dressed as a ghost..? Yeah... weird... she didn't take him to be much of a ghost character... Didn't take him to be spooky or sinister, or dispersing in front of the eye... well.

The boy with the curly hair, so luscious in black, continues his thin yet soft and tender grin as Lyla takes her sweet time trying to remember something that isn't going to come. "Ummm... remember you? Yes. I do. Not your name though. Sorry... I'm really bad with... remembering things. Heh. But—but I remembered you." She blushes softly.

"Heh... that's alright. Some people are a little more forgetful than others." The hand falls from her head but sways still, near her side. She doesn't look at it. Man, maybe she met him once before... but this guy. His hand. Right there. Riiiiiiiight there. Almost on her shoulder. Almost.

"I remember your name. Lyla, yes?" That murmur, so creamy and rich and yet deep and full... has he said her name before? Oh. Heck. Has he? "I'm Jaxk"—perfectly voiced, and then she remembers in a sweet chime—"but please, just call me Jax, Jack... my name is hard enough."

She wonders then, just quietly, if _he_ has a loud voice. She doesn't. Lucha apparently doesn't either. For the most part. Unless, well, he's deprived of air because of a mask. "Oh yeaaaahh! Now I really remember you! I kept trying to say your name... but it was all Jaxikhh... phhhhhb..." She sticks her tongue out. "I can't sthay eiit... that makesht meeh saaaaahhd."

"Well I am rather sorry..."

A small, luscious smile ripples over his lips.

"Would you like to go somewhere?"

Well... wait... would it be rude if she di—but she's so tiiiiiiiired... "Nnnnnnng..."

"Heh." Just the smallest giggle, smallest smirk. "I can sit as well. We don't have to go anywhere."

Apparently he comprehends personal space just as much as that one hand of his. Their shoulders are touching... heck. Half of their bodies are like... rubbing against each other. Her arm, his arm, her leg, his leg, just that side of the torso...

He's sitting way too close.

A very large awkward smile fills the majority of her face.

 _He's sitting waaaaayy too close_.

"But we could. Hm? Alone in the forest... you could go exploring into the recesses you have yet to see, because of that little rule, little restriction... eh? You could hop off and disappear now, into the mist, where the lanterns aren't. It would be easy with this darkness." That smile...

it's so... so...

"Uhh... yes I sure would love to but Freya'd like kill me. Ahahahahaha. HA. HA. Ha."

Then the grin just gets softer, smoother. "Smart girl."

Smart girl? What?

Then so casually his hand goes and pats her curly hair, just softly. Smart girl? You sure about that?

Is he overstepping his boundaries? Are there any rules against sitting this close to someone you only met once before? Is this, like, bad?

She doesn't know. She doesn't know... but she is tired... just sitting in front of the pies... everyone's out playing games she has no stamina for... well... they're having fun... that's good, right..?

"Hmmhmm. Once more... once more will it happen. Still waiting for its time. Certainly not yet, though."

Soft, soft laughter...

"But I will be waiting for that time to come."

Fading... oh, she's so freaking sleepy...

"Do rest while the others are out, little Lyla."

…

They do find her some few minutes after. Freya snorts at the sight of the brunette passed out on the side of the picnic table, just sitting there in her little seat. Alone. Not any longer, no, and certainly not alone... _long enough_ , right?

She has been exhausted, hasn't she? Gone through a lot. Aw... poor thing.

Freya wants to protect her, protect that innocence... but maybe she should tell her what's... going on. A little more.

Fierce glance at the clouds. They won't change. No, they never change on Halloween...

every month they have this chance...

She winces, looking over that sleepy, innocent face...

Oh, Lyla... what will we do with you? Camofrog's right...

 **And there we have the end of arc 3... what's in store next? Marsh is out of the picture, but we do still have two fully accessible towns. Not to mention those coins that were on the ground when everyone went missing. (Coins? Gasp, what coins? O man o man!) If someone like Katie and Isabelle and Nook can say his name... what does that mean? What is this "special?" Will we see more of them? (ooooh?)**

 **Every month? Well I'm guessing it's a little more obvious by now. Halloween is every month. (what?) And this is what they live in... mmh. Any guesses on what's going on with the weirdo villagers themselves? Might wanna start thinking... hahaha.**

 **Holy wow, Halloween is the thirty-first and this is the thirty-first chapter xD Nice...**

 **Yeep, long chapter. That happens sometimes, haha... but not too often xD Long chapter is only 3k anyways, which is... short for me? Like in general, hahaha...**


	32. So Then if One was to be Missing

So Then if One was to be Missing

Stars like speckled wishes scatter over the skies. Dark-knit, black... the clouds can leave their cover, because even as their secrets go without cover, it's too black to see whatever truth is up there. Only dots, hapless and tiny dots, star fragments, offer much of anything.

But that's okay. The air is crisp and cool—all year round, apparently—and the others are by her. Most of them sit, sleepy and yet hyper from the sugar rush pie brings, as well as memories in their heads of today.

Lyla hasn't done much of the festivities... but then again she's been exhausted in their stead. The friend beside her, lemon eyes lidded, head tipped high, was with her. Freya stayed around most of the time. They played rather uninteresting but fun games... it was nice. Peaceful.

Again there is no Jay.

The pink dear merely smiled sadly when her brunette friend mentioned that she _did_ the the curly hair boy, and he gave her a visit. Freya then mentioned something about telling her important things later.

Important things... what kind? What kind indeed.

"Freya?" she murmurs, just in a hushed whisper. In case the wolf does lose her edge, dip into rest, can't blame her. But an ear flicks, one eyelid raises somewhat. "Aren't you upset at all that you had to... um... babysit me instead of chill with Fauna?" Everyone knows they're best friends...

"Mmh? Oh, no. Don't worry about it... She was off with someone I'd rather not spend time with anyways." She offers a half-baked glare toward the white dog in the midst of their gathering. Sitting in the grass, cool and fresh air, warm thoughts. The dog. The faun beside him.

As she drifts back off into her head, Lyla takes another glance toward her spunky pink friend. Her gentle, short hair resting about her, just hardly to her shoulders. It's white at the tip: a mystical white, like snow. If everything she'd heard and seen is true... then has Freya seen snow very often?

Rosy pink fur. Her red dress, the cape flipping by her back now. Lyla pokes at one of the wings attached to her own costume, watches it wave back and back. Hunh. Freya's... strangely elegant, in a way. She's got a rocker vibe, but she's almost classy about it—sort of chill. And she's always trying to keep everyone safe.

What's going on in her head? What kind of thoughts does she reminisce over? Pondering is a little worrisome... knowing Freya, she must have all kinds of scary things going on in her head.

She still has the choker around her neck. A slight glare is in her gaze, still pointed back at the white dog... and while he isn't smug, he isn't guilty either. Small shake of his soft, fluffy fur. Adjust of the guitar he holds. Gentle pat of the girl's head, the one just beside him. Fauna.

The simple notion is strangely surreal.

Keke's tender head he lifts up toward the stars. He murmurs, "This song is in memory of those that were lost in the recent past." His voice is tenacious... still it is gentle. Thoughtful and thrumming, strong and yet weak, so weak, too weak to be held for long enough than one needs. Just out of your reach...

"I know there was a villager in that town who loved the stars. They called him... magical, even. And he loved this song. I wish I could remember all of them and all of their favorites, but this one I do. This I do... I've always called it Stale Cupcakes. It... suits the mood." Single breath.

" _Oh...  
See the party fall apart.  
And when we lock our eyes,  
oh let it be..._

Small glance toward the doe beside him. Small, small smile.

 _Oh...  
Watch the cupcakes hit the ground.  
And all you need to know,  
is let us be... here it goes._

 _We go  
Past our youthful days  
We cry  
Lost our beauty from...  
aaboooooove...  
the cupcakes fall...  
it's okay... just breathe._

Sigh.

 _Oh...  
See the parting of the guests.  
Until we're all alone,  
oh let it be... bake this love._

With a pause, he strums, just strums. Not a word from the souls about him. Eyes to the sky, sky full of stars, those desperate bright little pieces of hope flickering with all of their light into a town of great darkness.  
But it's not enough. Nothing is.  
Only a fool wouldn't see it.

 _Oh don't be glum now.  
Pink frosting tracing  
on your lips, you see...  
naught but beauty."_

Most of them leave early. The town is solemn. Silent with the weight of the blackness above, around them, below them: everywhere. Permeation everywhere.

Lyla is slow leaving... but as she begins to walk off, she can hear the giggles and kisses and whispers shared between the two remaining animals. One of them, little and sweet and brown, points to a constellation, calls it The Unicorn, and the other one smiles very sadly.


	33. What a Conflict Such Could Cause

What a Conflict Such Could Cause

"Mmmm-hmm-hmmmmn..." Soft humming, skipping in the air. She feels a little like a bunny—or a bird. Psh, oh she wishes.

Finally Lyla's begun taking care of herself. More or less. Crisp white button-up blouse, a pair of jeans she thinks Lucha accidentally left at her house or something—cuz there's no way it was Isabelle's. Comfy sandals. She's very satisfied with these sandals.

Not sure where they came from, though. Honestly the villagers of Wherford use each other's clothes so often she has a strong feeling that they all have pieces of each other now. Fauna—she's learned—which is a _good thing—_ usually comes around and takes their dirty junk, sets them into a couple safe piles—the whites together forever, some brighter reds, oranges, pinks, softer and darker blues, blacks—and sets off to go wash them.

Somewhere.

Where? No. Lyla doesn't know. Why would she know? Well. Maybe one day they'll all go to Somewhere on an adventure to find out just where Fauna washes their clothes at. It does cost some small amount of bells, so Fauna takes those too, but it's worth it in the end.

Is she wearing Lucha's jeans? Hrmm. They are sort of tight, especially around the hips. But yet strangely loose in a couple areas, like around the knees. Birds are weird. But she loves them...

Wait, whoa. Now that Lyla thinks about it... does Fauna ever go farther than the washer's? She never seems to leave town, like, ever, unless it's that or Freya's like hey-we're-going-now. Otherwise...

Maybe she should ask Camo about that, too. She's got a small list in her head, things she'd like to pester him about when it comes to the other villagers, when it comes to their town in general. Small hops and the lightest of jogs—past Nibbles's great turquoise home, over the bridge, north by the river... little more... there it is!

She never got a good look at the inside before. Wonders what it's like. Just curiously. Now that she thinks about it... she hasn't really been to the inside of anyone's house, has she? Lucha's, once. Deli's on that sleepover... Fauna's, a couple times. Well okay. Maybe a few. But... still. That's not much at all. How... not fun. Pbb!

Well, okay. Here she goes. In front of his home... it's metal and sort of oval-shaped, like Freya's, and Jay's, and Lucha's for that matter. Only this time the door is green, the roof a rigid black. She thinks green would fit the roof better, but whatever.

 _Pon, pon_. His isn't plastic or wood, oh, no. More metal. Ow. Her arm wobbles a little just moving it afterword. There's a bit of a silence. She bonks her head into the door thinking, oh, maybe this'll help—

"Oop! Ow, ow, ow! Bad idea! Bad idea! Camooooooooo!"

What was it he said, once upon a time? It had to do with promises, and his promises... what he did about promises... oh, what was it? Something... something that was important, important to her, only now she can't even remember it, ullhh...

"Oh my"—he slams the door open— _BRUNNNG!_

"Aaauugh! Lyla! Lyla, oh my gosh!" He stares haplessly at the heap in front of him. She must be okay—to a degree—if she's still moving, but goodness. There is a sizable lump on her forehead, and her nose is... well. Bleeding. A little.

Oh, dear.

He extends a hand and helps her to her feet. Gently Lyla totters on said feet, moves her head back and forth slowly, as if to ward off creatures in some form of a crazy chant. "Uhhh... can I... can I come in? I had... I had some things to... ask you about... kff—y-y'know..."

Gently she shakes her head again, blinks fiercely, and tries for a grin.

The shorter frog gives her a moment to regain composure. She doesn't know she's in the middle of a nosebleed, does she? Awkwardly he pulls a handkerchief out of one pocket and tosses it toward her. She stares at it for a moment and he points at his nose a little aggressively. Oh. Plugs at it. _Oh_.

And then out comes the sigh. "Lyla... I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. But... this is a very, very bad time. I'm sorry, but I can't be as... available as I wish." He winces as Lyla's eyes cross slightly. Confusion—why? What?

She can sort of hear it... sort of hear the voice on the other side of the slightly-opened door, the very feminine... crying? Is that a sob? It's wet and bubbly and wailing, obviously anything but joy. Worry explodes across her hot cheeks as she shares a look with the frog. Beneath the handkerchief she's biting her lip—and notes then that this is... kind of wet. Droplets of wet, not in one smeary glob like wiping or snot or anything... like exactly that: droplets. Droplets...

As her nose subsides, she awkwardly turns back to the river just by them, drops it in, washes at it—or tries to at least—and brings its soaking entity back to the frog, who accepts it and shoves it back into the pocket—no, another pocket. He's... antsy.

"Ul, I'm sorry. I'll visit you when I can. But I... I can't right now. Not for another... few hours. Urg—I'll go over to your house sometime, okay? I'm sorry."

Gently her friend closes the door shut in her face.

There's shushing, there's crying—yes, that's crying—and the crying grows a little quieter the longer he's there, but... Lyla balls up her hands in front of her, slowly takes her steps back.

Nearly runs into a certain sheep.

It's strangely bright outside, now that she thinks about it. Looks up—no, there's still quite a few clouds... but they're white and fluffy, harmless in every way. The slightest spots of sky shine through, just very slightly, like where it's safe and nothing is hiding...

"Oh! Lyla, I didn't expect to see you here!"

The pale girl turns around, smiles a small smile. "Hi Frita. Heh. I could say the same about you." She's still kinda stuffy, a little lightheaded, but she'll make it.

Just kind of sad. Sad that...  
the crying, the shushing, that look in her Camo's eyes, that... crushed anxiety. Ulh... that's no good.

Frita offers her condolences. "So... Wanna walk with me? Just a little bit..." Her dark gaze shoots for the train station some small stroll in front of them, the wooden stop like it's a haven, a sanctuary, like one step in there will give her everything she ever needs.

"Where are we going?"

The sheep glances back at her, cheeks an angry red. "Nnnh? I didn't say that! J-Jhhh... _come on_." Her hoof yanks around Lyla's hand and strings the two girls together in Frita's direction. Her golden fur, having reaffirmed its luscious hint and nice sparkling flow, shifts and slithers like snakes in her hair instead of something so fluffy and soft. Very soft.

She speaks in her clipped voice, very slow, very soft, almost silent. "If Midge can escape her problem so easily... if she can take a train and never come back, if she so desires... then why wouldn't... why wouldn't..."

"Umm..." Aquamarine orbs widen slightly. "Midge doesn't... think of Lucha like a problem. She... she loves him. He's her brother, y-you know." Well. This is awkward.

Frita goes on like the girl didn't say anything. "Then why can't anyone? Eh? What's wrong with such a thing? Nothing wrong. Nothing wrong!"

She continues yanking at Lyla, like she's just some rag doll, no person within. But safety. Scared children find safety in their dolls... keep them close... close until the very, very end. Because there always is one, isn't there?

Just before the station, Frita swips Lyla around: her curls spin in front of her face. Her arms go rigid to her sides. Golden hooves clip over the girl's shoulders. Frita's gaze is strict, is strong: demanding. This-is-going-to-happen-just-as-I-say. "Stay here, Lyla."

"Right here?" Blink. Uh...

She grunts, tosses her head back. "No, not _right here_. Stay _here_." Stamps a foot into Wherford's soil. "And stay safe. Okay?" Her lips pucker into a frown, but she leaves Lyla with a small tap. And then she's gone, into the station, gone, gone, gone.

Is this a good thing? The brunette stares back, offers a wave as the train begins to chug by, stops, and then goes on again. Frita thinks this is a good thing. So maybe it is.


	34. When all Your Pieces Cannot Fit

When all Your Pieces Cannot Fit

Some time has passed. The sky is still... strangely warm. It hasn't been raining... if she's remembering right. Is it momentarily _pleased_ with them or something? Whoa, that's a funny concept. Like if the sky was magic! But what'd make it weirdly magic in the first place? Hmnng.

Lyla figures that she really should visit Isabelle soon. She's been trying... she thinks. Could've checked the town hall after leaving Camofrog's. Could've run up to her back on Halloween. Could have and would have and should have... but ultimately she didn't. Ouch. That bites. So—so anyways! Today should be the day! Oh finally! Lyla you're such a fail for taking so long, come on!

She nibbles, eyes narrowed, on her lip. Slowly takes her steps, careful past the bridge, past Camofrog's—soft wince as she passes his home and—

 _BRUUUNGG!_

"Gyaaaahh!" Soft whine. "I-I can't escape these _doors_ , can I..? O-Ow... ow ow ow..." Well, at least this one's... wood? Plastic? _Not_ metal. Thank goodness. She escapes with naught but a headache. Which still stinks but.

Lyla takes a small step back, glancing warily at the home just to the right of this one—Camofrog's, that being. She didn't go too far and bump into Jay's plastic blue door or anything. No. No... this one is different. Very different. For once, it's nigh completely blue. And the door... it has some sorta wood paneling on it. The walls are—while the house is ultimately ovalesque like the others in the northern area, these walls are, like, a strange cyan... maybe metal? No. Some weird material... brick or something. Cement? Blue cement?

Well at least she bumped into the door instead of anything else. There's a nice night-sky-blue roof... and oh, it's a great thing she didn't run into his tiny delicate fence... made of elegantly-webbed... metal. Ahaha. No. Just looking at it makes her legs go all tingly. And wait... what's that?

Square in the middle of the door, taped or something on there, lies a piece of wrinkled, white paper.

Gently Lyla snatches the bit without thinking, unraveling the crinkled white treasure. Treasure? It could be anything. Now that she thinks about it, the note kinda looked like a paper rose until she unraveled it... oh, no, what if it's for the person inside? Well. That's okay. Oops.

What's it say, what's it say..?

"Mmnnn..." Lyla scans over the page.

Oh. _Oh_.

It looks very much like it's addressed to her, of all people. Huh. Well. Better read it.

 **Smart girls get rewards. For being good, here's yours.**

She stares at the note, very confused and very unnerved for a moment or so there. A small blush creeps along one cheek, climbs over the bridge of her nose, and sets awash to the other side. Her hands shake a little bit. Speechless? Um. Maybe.

Slowly she crinkles up the ruined paper rose and stuffs it into her skirt pocket. And then, full attention on it, the door begins to creak open—she quickly sidesteps, her head hurting just looking at that big thing... the big thing she'd only just hit her head on. Oulh.

There is a villager behind that door: a villager she doesn't remember seeing recently. Shining hooves—hooves—shining blue fur... long and elegant, almost silky-looking, certainly a sight for the eyes... oh her goodness, so sparkly. Sparkly—wait... is this a guy we're dealing with here? Or a girl..? Are we sure? Her lips pucker. Horn on the head, shimmering darker luscious blue hair... lilac eyeshadow.

In a shimmering shirt, made of some really nice fabric. The pants are of well quality too, with a small design toward the top. Behind is the welcome mat and a couple pairs of shoes... Nice house there, too. Welcoming. Very very blue. Though here's nothing wrong with blue or anything.

Well. Now she knows this newbie's favorite color. Wait. Newbie—is this... is this a new villager?

Instinctively a hand dives for her pocket, pokes at the letter.

"H-H-Hiiii..." She tries at a wave and her face nearly cracks. This smile hurts. Why is she smiling this badly in the first place. Lyla. "U-Umm... o-ohhh! Oh goodness. I've seen you before, haven't I? I swear I've seen you before."

The unicorn stretches out into a yawn, arms pressed above his head, inevitably putting pearly white teeth on display. "Mmmmh? Yes... I believe I have seen you before," he murmurs in a voice that makes it quite obvious what his gender is. Soft and silky, yet hinted and faded in a tone that would never be mistaken as a female's. "Were you... you're Lyla, right?"

Fervent nodding. "Yeah! Yeah! And you're—pause; blushing—Ju... Julia? No..."

"Ehhhh, nice try." Smooth shrug. "It's Julian. What are you doing in Marsh at this time? I've only just woken up myself..." Another yawn follows his parted words.

Wait... wait. Frantic glance to the right—no. No. No. No. That very much is Camofrog's house. The rustic, almost rusty structure... the green door that should honestly be the color of the roof: and then the frog himself strolling nearby, watering can in hand. Oh. Oh! Yes! That's Camofrog. Oh no... oh no! Oh dear... How is she gonna explain this to—

"Wait. Wait..." His already-pinched eyes narrow further. "I'm remembering something... ullf..." And then shadows plague his face, as if a bucket of water was tossed head on.

A hoof goes to his white-traced lips. "Oh, dear. No, this isn't Marsh at all, is it?" Frantic headshake. "And Marsh isn't..." Breath. "Is it? It _isn't_." Nodding, nodding, head falling into her hands. Yes, it isn't. It isn't any longer. No it's not. And none of you are...

"But yet I'm here... oh, oh dear." Softer sigh. "I'm going to need a moment to divulge this... Because I swear, I swear my last memory wasn't here or... well..." A small blush trails his angular cheeks, then, and he gives Lyla a small bow, not unlike the doffing thing the boys in her town do. "Apologies. I'm... in a great deal of turmoil right now...

"Well... at least the sunrise is rather lovely."

"Uhh?" Lyla turns back, nearly spinning into the river.

Oh... oh! Oh, _goodness_! He's right! That is a nice sunrise... but that's not why Lyla's surprised. She's seen tons and tons of sunrises... though never one in Wherford. And that's not—that's not it! It's not just something memorable—the clouds! They're gone! Why are they gone!

Her fingers instinctively bite on that note of hers.

What's with... the things in the sky? They're... they look like...

"Tree branches," softly finishes the unicorn behind her. "What's with the face, love? I thought it was something all of us knew, your town and... my... er, once-town."

Slowly Lyla goes to sit on Julian's front porch. The front porch that shouldn't be anywhere near her town. That shouldn't be on this ground. That went missing for days and days... and then suddenly reappeared here.

Tree branches. Those tree branches. They don't go to the one in the plaza... do they? Her burning eyes follow one of the great, gnarly, monstrous arms back downwards, downwards, further and further and—yes... it does go back there. Ulh! Her heart throbs in her throat. What's with that tree, it's so... humungous... and disgusting. Knotted and pockmarked and torn with what must be a truly frightening age.

There's something horribly wrong with this place... and it's only becoming further evident the longer Lyla stays here.


	35. But What if it's Not Only You

But What if it's Not Only You

"Huh? What're you talking about this time, Lyla?" A low chuckle drifts through the breeze. Lyla's cheeks pink a little hotly as a certain froggy friend of hers nears. Oh come on. He sees this too. He has to.

Slowly the dumfound slap hits him. "Oh... Oh! Wow, that took me a moment! Why the heck didn't I notice a new neighbor in a house _right by mine_?"

She giggles in turn. Julian doffs his head the slightest. While he keeps his gaze most nearly shut, proving it difficult to tell whatever's going on in his head, the shadows remain. Like stains they taint the unicorn's being as a whole... like monsters, they practically grow all over. Lyla can only think of oh, how this poor thing must feel! His circumstances are a little iffy—but he wakes up one morning, steps out of his house, and this isn't his home!

And if she knows anything about it, this isn't any kind of home. She didn't even think about how none of the Marsh residents ever set foot on this soil... N-Not that she can blame them.

Her head, erect, turns back toward the hands in the sky, those gnarled branches and their groping fingers... already being pushed at by clouds. Clouds, she now notes, that gently lap over and begin their patchwork, covering their little secret again. When she stops and thinks about it—okay, a really big big tree—sure, doesn't sound that bad. And... yet...

The unicorn shuffles behind her. "Mmmh. Camofrog, long time no see."

"It's only been, what, a week? Two?" Snort. His throaty voice too layers over whatever he feels about the sudden appearance of their pal Julian. Just casually living in his house in Wherford. Just—just casually.

Lyla's about as covert as a see-through curtain.

Red cheeks. Fisted hands now slumped in front of her, following the arc of her shoulders. Just to make sure everyone knows how this makes her feel, she mumbles, "I don't like this..." It's kind of shameful, stupid in a way... but... but she doesn't!

Camofrog simpers in turn, one eyebrow raising—although he doesn't offer much else of a clue. W-Well hey. She doesn't. She ain't gonna act like nothing happened, pretend this is all normal, big breaths, big breaths. Opening her mouth causes a sharp shake of the head from the frog, like please-no-more-words, so she drops it then and there.

He knows. They know. Okay. Maybe there's a reason they're so good at hiding things. But it's more fun, feels more safe to imagine this is almost like a game, everything's just messing with her. Gently Lyla's fingers crease over her skirt.

"Mmmmh... no harm a bit of different air will do, eh? Maybe this will be better for me. It's nice and cooler here for sure—my old town... my old town was a lot hotter than this. Yeahh... it'll be nice." Julian offers an apologetic frown to the soil.

The girl just feels awkward now... all pulpy and folded in the wrong places—like a used tissue. That's exactly it. _Lyla_ is a _used tissue_ , and she seriously can't escape this awkward feeling of how she might've just screwed up or, or, or... ulllh...

It's like they are in a game! And every choice matters. Every single one.

From around the corner appears a tall and pink wolf; her height still falls short to the very superior unicorn. She huffs a bit at the sight of that—but it's probably not the difference that causes a frown to smear all over her face. "Wh—What do we have... here!" She coughs abruptly. "A... A new villager? Ehh... could you... could you tell me your name?"

The discomfort swallows up her lavish features. Freya's eyebrows crunch together; the gleam in her creamy lemon eyes wobbles in place, can't keep up with her. She's got angry blush strokes not unlike claws seeping through her cheeks and her arms fold over her leather vest—like that solves problems.

Man. Okay. If there's anything Lyla really wants to do in the near future, it's never ever _ever_ get on Freya's bad side, _ever again_.

Her soft pink friend _means it_. The choker round her neck gleams dangerously from its perch.

"Heh. Hello, nice to meet you. Call me Julian," softly returns the unicorn. While a bit of a disgruntled stare accompanies his words, he's mostly chill, mostly relaxed. Well. He's been in this area for much longer than the little lout beside him—man, if there's any a time to feel stupid.

"Julian." Freya's grin lacks any mirth. "Yes. I won't go forgetting that name now..."

There is a pause. Just that abrupt stop of flow, stop of words sends the breeze running through their little group and chills up and down Lyla's pale body. Her hair tousles itself over her forehead, into her eyes. She wraps her arms around herself then too.

Somehow she gets the feeling that a risky gamble is about to be put down, and they're all holding their breaths at the wonder of what kind of outcome it may bring. Camofrog slowly nods. Freya's ears go flat across her head.

"Say, if you don't mind me asking... what brought you to move to Wherford?"

His lips, although pressed together, suggest an answer lies in becoming. An answer that he will give. One big breath; exhale. "I must say that the climate and _conditions_ surrounding the area here rather... _attracted_ me." His lids, for just a moment, flutter open; a very dark look from very light eyes suggest they please don't give any more thought to the matter.

The stare that shoots from Lyla's two friends really sets her on edge: murderous yellow meets a savage, murky brown. Their gazes narrow, though they don't say much more. The words "conditions" and "attracted" flutter over Freya's lips once or twice; she never utters them aloud. Like it's a dare. And this dare she won't commit to. Oh, oh no. Lyla's freaking out a little bit now, holy heck. Is it just her or did the freaking temperature just drop?

She dips her head to the sky.

Since when were the clouds so big and... bulky and... gray? Ulh. It's gonna rain, isn't it.

Finally Freya smiles again: it's small, it's sad, it's gotta be worthless: Lyla's heart skips a beat at the sight of it. "I'm very _happy_ to know that you'll be joining us here in Wherford. I'm sure you know how we function here; just try not to be too _lonely_ and I'm sure you'll have just a _grand, old time_.

"It appears it's about to rain. I'm worried it might be a harsh one, too... Lyla? Would you like to stay over for some time?"

"A-Aaahh?" What is this, the first time anyone recognized her existence this entire chat? "Um—um!" That look demands more than suggests. "S-S-Suuuuuuure..!" She lets the wolf take her hand and lead her off. They make their way through the mud and early-dropping bits of cool, wet tears, pushing past a couple small trees, couple small branches, off to Freya's home.

The frog scoots closer to the unicorn and utters in a voice low and very hard to hear: "I'm sorry."

Shaking his head, Julian merely smiles a bitter little smile.


	36. Many Puzzles Fall Apart

Many Puzzles Fall Apart

It's been raining a lot lately.

No. Seriously. A lot. Like, a lot even for good ol' Wherford. Lyla can see shapes on her window out of the freaking raindrops.

Why yes she is bored. A little angsty too. Yeah, she could go outside... her hair's curly enough even without the humidity... but most of the villagers prefer anything but as it is. Avoidance... silence. It's real... depressing. She kinda wishes Lucha would pop up out of nowhere... but he lives all the way across town. Yeah, if lights are on in nearby houses and they see him passing through, sure, he could make it down here.

But he's... he _is_ a derp.

She could go.

Thunder crackles in the distance.

No. Too moody for it.

Maybe... maybe she should go see if anyone else is less moody... like... like Nibbles! Nibbles doesn't act like the moody type... right? Right? She's too bubbly for it, always spurting happy nonsense and jumping around Camofrog, following him around... giving Lyla weird looks when she sits near him... taking him away from everyone else...

and there was that crying voice from inside his house, that one time... mnnng...

Maybe Camofrog's out. He likes the rain, right? Maybe he walks to Nibbles's or something. He could. His oddly soft and murky body wouldn't take much of a hit from the splatter splatter of rain—though maybe his lotion would. Gosh, how much of it does he use per day here? Maybe a little bit whenever he needs it, but then thinking about the water that might wash it—wait. He's an amphibian. Everything she just said is invalid.

 _Thuk._ Head against the window.

It's lonely. That's what it is. Moody cuz she's lonely—cuz everyone else is all... moody or whatever. Being pent up. Stuck around here. She doesn't wanna just sit up, all snug by the cold, hard window, smile and laugh with her reflection—why can't she work up the heart to go pester anyone else? Seriously! Anyone!

Maybe she's scared. A little bit. Because of their reactions to something as small as a sudden new villager—well. He does have his own thing going on. But still...

Oh... Lyla doesn't like it. Doesn't like it at all! But she can't just go running around or Freya will kill her... Pester Curlos? Nah. He hates the rain. Says he tries to hibernate through it mostly. Deli's around... but he's probably wasted on food and laziness too. Pbb. Frita's...

Nibbles, right? Check on Nibbles?

Oh, come on, Lyla. Stop being so nervous... She pokes at her stomach, which isn't making noise but a very knotty tie in her chest. Hurts. Ow. Hmnn. She slumps over it, head again bonking against that stubborn window.

Sucks in her cheeks. Why think about it so much, anyways? She was never much of a thinker. Almost failed all of her classes in high school... and _did_ fail quite a few anyways. Psh... there's no way she'd ever get into college—or get into anything at all. Jobs... she really didn't feel like taking that plunge. Tried living off the streets, off the trains... well. She made it through four years. That's... that's pretty impressive. She thinks it's her greatest accomplishment, being alive this long.

Gently the pale girl—jacketed and cold in her boots and her pants—leads up to the front door, gently peels the way outward. Sniffles at an icy blast, keeps going, around...

Whatever, whatever, she mumbles to herself. Stuffs the hoodie of the jacket over her flushed face. She gets the feeling a lot of the people here were like her in some way, or somehow managed to get stuck. Freya and Camofrog—they'd probably ace college, get crazy good jobs. Though Freya's more on the wild side of things—rock star over lawyer; and then Camo's a peaceful dude, not so much for the big anything.

Somehow they fit in anyways.

Do they like it here? Are they happy they plopped their homes in Wherford? N-No. Seriously. D-Do they smile when they look up at the rainy skies... are they happy with a constant Halloween, gloominess eternal, very few peeks of a real sunrise—and when those even happen... oh, those branches!

Those branches...

She shuffles over to the side of her house, where a small peach tree chose to reside. Scrabbles at the trunk for some while, eventually manages to get up onto a couple branches. Scoots over to the very edge of what she really, really hopes is a sturdy one—stuffs her fingers over the edge of her house's roof...

Do they? Do they like it here? Are they happy they live here?

She's going to go mad—she's going to go mad. These thoughts are eating her alive.

Do they smile every day? Has their joy begun to slip away? Or is it worth it?

Or is it only a slow fade... away... away from all kinds of things...

Slumped, defeated, heart in her head, Lyla settles herself on the rather new shingles helping make up her roof. While not the most comfortable thing in the world, they'll rather do. Her hood's getting a little soaked... she fingers at it, shrugs, shakes her head, sends some droplets flying.

Curls up toward the middle, where it all comes together. It eases her sore back. Sore legs.

Sore heart, sore head.

There's some blur running amok out there. High contrast from the drab gray. Really easy to see, easy to hear too— _plip plap plap plap plap plip plip plip_. Lyla doesn't really notice it: she's got her arms all wrapped up along themselves, her cheeks puffy, eyes a bit red on the edges. Busy staring at her freaking kneecaps, covered in a soft jean fabric—skinny jeans again—and this now splattered in raindrops.

Feeling it all around her... seeing it consume her... Rain makes Lyla sad. Makes her want to cry sad. Shrivel up and sob until her heart can do none but wail...

She's not sad that she ended up in Wherford. She rather likes it here, dummy she is.

The others—the others... she's scared for them... wants to... wants to...

"hey."

It's too quiet and goes unnoticed.

The pink blob by Lyla's roof bristles, yells, "HEY!"

That attracts some attention. Slowly the brunette shifts, registers the lovely pink wolf just beneath her. Freya's all wet too, even with the pink parasol she's got in hand—lined in black and flouncy white, no less. Lolita? That seems like a thing Freya'd be into.

Why the heck is she thinking about lolita? What? What about... what about... sorrow...

Ulg... curse her stupid memory, curse her idiocy, curse _her_...

"...yla... Lyla! Oh, stop giving your knees that look; I'm the one you should be talking to, not them!" She turns back again, gives Freya a very disdainful look, and shifts from where the wolf lies, further along the roof.

"Lyla—what are you—!" Oh. _Oh_. She's... making space on there for her to go on. Okay then. Guess they won't go inside where it's safe and warm. Whatever. Fine. Freya takes her sweet time clambering up the peach tree, slowly waddles over to her friend. Lyla's got this glum little pout on her face, cheeky puffy, eyes stained.

Oh... Freya's voice goes soft. "Lyla... you poor thing. Goodness, what's wrong?" Eyes dulling, she turns away, glares at the sky. "It... really doesn't... a gloomy Lyla doesn't... Oh, why?" In the short time she's gotten to know this strange girl, she's met all kinds of little pieces of her inside... and really. The gloomy girl, crumpled up and tossed away like some sort of trash... it's depressing.

So then the brunette tosses all of that sopping sadness right into Freya's face. "Because you guys... you're all... you're all!"

It explodes on impact.

"Sad. You're all sad. I think. And..."

She doesn't like that, does she? Well... goodness.

The innocence in her gaze really clashes with the shadow the rain gives to her, the tone that those little splashes rattle upon her... like tiny, tiny chinks in Lyla's armor. As everyone has their armor, their cover, their attempt at hiding the soft, vulnerable spots within...

Although... Lyla never does a good job at using it, does she? No... not really. She lets herself be hit.

Freya... Freya doesn't want to be hit... she doesn't want others to be hit, wants to make it all safe... _all safe_...

Oh... she nearly says it aloud, then; Lyla, what are we going to do with you?

She might as well. Might as well try something. Obviously this poor thing is sniveling just beside her...

All those tears from the sky on her face...

It's... it's not pathetic. Maybe it should be, but it's not. It makes her feel _awful_. Like everything is more of her fault than it already... ullhh...

"Hey. Lyla." One step at a time, one step at a time. Gently the wolf takes one of Lyla's cold, small hands in her paw. Works at a smile. A small one. Doesn't have to be everything... just something. "I'll... start telling you a little about this place... so, after listening, please don't worry about us so much." Maybe it's _her_ who's pathetic, looking over poor Lyla like a lost puppy. But those big, blue eyes... wide and lost, so very lost and cold... oh, she can't take it.

Small breath. Lyla's very attentive now: back erect, face cooling, creased. "I know that... you haven't been here that long... so it looks like..." Bigger breath. "Looks like we're mad, we're upset... we're a lot of things. And... I want you to know that, while nothing is perfect..." Big breath. "It could always be worse. And we know each other, don't we? So please... please don't cry over something so..." Big, big breath. "Small."

"Unh..?" She rubs at her round nose, wipes at her snotty tears. Freya pulls a handkerchief and hands it to the girl, who makes quick work of it.

I'm sorry, Lyla.

The words on the very tip of her tongue.

"It's okay..." Great, big sigh. "Don't worry too much about it. Seeing you all ruffled is... kind of wrong. Heh. Don't think of it too much. Don't think so much—you only get upset when you do that. You never have been a big thinker, have you..?"

Lyla giggles. Freya sighs a silent breath, a silent prayer of relief. "No, I haven't been. You probably know that by now... eheheh. Um..." Cheeks red, she squishes them together between her fingers and mumbles, "Thank youuuuu..."

"Don't... mention it."

She takes back the handkerchief, stuffs it in her other pocket subconsciously.

A sudden great, bright bolt of lightning _shiiiiiings_ right up against Lyla's house, nearly searing Freya, oh very close to Freya, and then all is silent again.

They go back inside soon after.


	37. All the Pieces to be Scattered

All the Pieces to be Scattered

Lyla's reasoning goes something like: hey, it's only been a day or so, and the rain got your jacket anyways, so you can totally wear it again today!

Psh. She might as well have cursed it the moment she put it on.

Hmm... what to do today? Isn't that always the question. Shifting through her piles of clothing, going with some tee covered by said jacket and some skirt or another—skirts are freaking fun—she sets out then.

While this town of theirs can be quite dreary, a little sad, it looks like everyone's awake by now. A small yawn, a stuffing of her curls into their respective hair bands, and departure.

 _Slurch slurch slurch slurch sluch..._

"Psh... well. Good thing I remembered rain boo—oh wait. I forgot shoes again... awwww! But if I put my feet in them now... like... should I really turn around? If I turn around and go all the way back even though I'm already out here in the mud... that'd be, like, counterproductive or something, yeah? Yeah. I think that makes sense." She goes on shoeless. This has come to be quite the unfortunate habit...

She glances over some, spots the smudgy brown figures of Curlos and Deli further along. Are they... hm... kinda looks like they're planting something. Oh—no. Deli just took a spill in the mud... now he's all gross and mucky...

Are they... rolling up balls of mud and tossing them at each other?

Well. Apparently.

Lyla goes on, then. Skipping a little. Aquamarine eyes burning. There's something she's been wanting to do today... something very, very important... something she'd been wanting to do...

A bright little face forms in her mind. And this time, nothing will stop her!

Past the bright turquoise house Nibbles calls home, and past she herself with her froggy boyfriend pestering the new blue home just by. Julian's... not being forgotten. Welcomed, added, in some sort.

That makes her smile a little more.

And then before she knows it she's already pounding at the door. Oh!

"Jay Jay Jay Jay Jaaaaaaaaayy!" There is a rustling—she hears some sorta rustling on the other side... wait... wait... She presses her ear against the plastic. Because that'll probably help. Wait... oh... no. No. The sounds aren't coming from in here but right by her on Jay's little porch.

Oh wow, that was sad.

The dark, quiet orbs come her way. He's just sitting there in front of his house... in some tee, some shorts. A little tired-looking, staring at the gloomy, misty atmosphere.

Whoa, wait—has Lyla ever seen the sun here? The moon, for that matter? Well maybe the moon, with those stars... at least some stars—has she seen the sun? She stares dumbfounded at the sky for a moment there, just staring. Just staring. Then shakes her head, tugs at one of Jay's shimmering blue wings.

Strangely, even with all of his working out and falling over, he's always got such clean feathers...

"Jaaaaayyy! Let's go do something fun!"

His soft-voiced objection is imminent. "E-Ehhh... I have... I have j-jogging to do, Lyla... y-you know how much that... means to me..."

He sinks a little bit more with each pause.

Lyla gives him one big frown.

"Nuh-uh! Not today! Let's go do something fuuuuuuun!" And then she pulls at him some, to prove her point.

He splutters, "Aahhh! D-Do I really have to? A-Are you sure this is a good idea? D-D-Do you really want _me_ , of everyone living here?"

Wait. What? "Um. Yes. Of course!" She tries at a smile, and Jay tugs the other way. Okay maybe not the smile. Don't wanna scare him away, now...

Beautiful birds...

Finally, very quietly, and very quickly, like someone will kill him if they overhear—"O-O-O-Okay f-f-fine I'll go with you one day shouldn't be so bad I-I'll just tell everyone I did some cardio be-before leaving m-m-my house o-okaaaayyy!"

There are a few whimpers, but all in all... wow. She feels kinda proud of herself.

From further along, she spies Freya and Fauna making their way around, scooping up bits of dirt and burrowing in flowers—a funky net—bug net?—strapped over the wolf's back of all things—and even plucking a couple weird-looking flowers from the earth... And... oh, who is that peeking out the crack of his door?

"Oh, Luchaaaaa! Come join us! Come join us!"

There was a great mess of grief and agony and painstaking thought process on his face until she uttered those few words. Not very loud, as Lyla can't do loud, and yet loud enough to shove all the worry off his face and send a blush over his cheeks.

Slowly. Slowly, now.

Lucha does join them, the red bird clad in what she expects to be some sweater of Fauna's, and then... well. Skinny jeans. His favorite. He tries to glare at Jay and point at his current attire, but the bird blankly keeps his focus on the sky.

Lyla tries that too. Uh... what was it Freya always thought: is it safe? Is it safe? How should she know? Yes? Whatever, they're going anyway. This is a good idea.

They pass by the town hall and for a moment there, she swears she's forgetting something vital. But then they continue moving and the itchy thought passes.

Lucha hugs up by her shoulder; Jay's twitchy by her other. She feels very liked today. Huh. Next time she gets all depressing and sad...

Quiet stroll—or shove—toward the train station, quiet taking of the seats. Jay nervously hums to himself and stops, choking on the notes. Lucha stares haplessly at the girl sitting in front of him, who just smiles in turn. And then he smiles—and blushes—and whines at himself for being such a hopeless, hopeless derp.

And then silence. And then violently broken silence, not unlike tossing a vase into the tiled flooring.

"Ha-Haaave I-I-I ever told you about... about..." Nervous thumb-twiddling. "N-Never mind, the story's... well. You probably don't care..."

"Ehhhhh!" squeaks Lyla. "No no no! Jay! Go on! I totally care!"

Oh, yes, that worms a smile out of him. Yes. "Well, u-u-ummm! If you insist... S-So, when... when I was young, I remember I used to have really big birthday parties... and invite everyone in my class over.

A small, serene smile sprouts along his lips. "It was fun. I didn't like leaving anyone out... so I'd even try to get my teachers to come, and the mean kids, and the people who didn't like me... But it's funny. Nobody ever looked at me weird... I loved being around everyone, and nobody ever made fun of me, never quite... Well. I mean. I think there was teasing, because everyone get it at one point, but I never could tell. Heh. I was way too happy a kid..."

"Ohhhh! Awwwwww! That's such a fun story!" He sends Lyla into gushing hysterics; Lucha stares at him, more than slightly disgruntled. He... didn't expect that from someone so twitchy. Uh. Weird. Instead of looking at the bluejay his gaze goes right back to Lyla, all springing up and down in her chair like a little kid. Big, breezy smile, begging Jay for more stories about his life and his birthday parties, about the bouncy houses they rented and the amusement parks and little things like that.

Funny...

The three exit on the station that leads out to Butterfly. Lyla's very concise in her leadership, does her very best to take everyone to the big, warm, happy town square in the middle where they take a short stroll. The flowers make Lucha smile, but unlike _old Jay the sappy sap sap face_ he doesn't go mumbling about it. Hugs by Lyla's shoulder again. Feels like a big derp, very big derp.

Jay and Lyla are talking softly together, giggling about stupid childhood memories. Lucha is such a derp... oh gosh. Another small garden of roses floats by, a basket full of pansies, and he quickly plucks one from the batch and holds it to himself. Just holds it.

"...uuuuchaa? Luucha..? Heeey... Heheheh. Do you have any embarrassing stories about your childhood?"

Oh? Uh? UH? WHAT? HI? LYLA? UM?

"Well y-yeah..." Angry angry blush coats his face like a fuzzy jacket hood. "Um duh. Um... uh..." Oh no. "When I was six, my mom accidentally bought my sister and I the same costume. She thought she'd gotten a pirate one for me and a... fairy one for her. Turns out she had two fairy ones..." Angry _angry_ blush. "Deli won't let me live it down. Everyone thought I was a girl the entire night. It's... where Luchie came from." Oh no. Oh dear.

Instead he receives a giggle. A soft one. A Lyla one. Jay's kinda loud and squeaky; she's way soft. "Well, I won't call you anything you don't want. Ahahaha. But that's silly..."

Ohhh, he tries so hard to make everyone be scared of him, to try and be clingy and cool and make people not hurt poor stupid Lyla and not be mean to her or walk all over her o-or or any of that but he's not scary and he doesn't invoke fear and he just can't even! Ahhhhh!

Jay's probably the wrong person to test it out on.

A-A-A-Anyways.

Oh Luchie, you derp.

They enter the museum near the back of the town, traverse through the chambers and talk with the funny owl guy who owns it. Lyla's very interested when someone mentions this word, "special," or something, but he completely misses it. So apparently there's an observatory up top where the owl's little sister chills, and down below lies their cafe. Lyla, excited and her face all flushed, pulls the two bird boys over and into the latter, where they find the raddest pigeon ever—and he's turquoise—and his glasses are awesome—and he's got the coolest outfit.

She loves birds. It's a little overwhelming. Lucha glances at his bracelets, the ones around his ankles, and burns Lyla's face into his gaze.

And they order drinks. Just coffees.

Jay manages to mumble something that sounds... Lucha doesn't know. Not listening.

Lyla just stares at everything with her eyes so wide they nearly pop out of her head. "Ummmm... umm... Can I... can I have a blend with, like, no sugar and... no milk? Just black?"

Okay he didn't expect that.

Does he order the same... should he... should—oh. Oh no. No that's creepy. Be yourself.

Just a blend... oh wow they _both_ like blends. A blend and... lots of sugar, lots of milk... he can't stand black coffee, makes him gag... he's gonna gag just looking at that pale girl with her big, black drink... it totally... it just... ulhhhhhg.

They sit as the pigeon hums to himself, settles everything out.

He kinda shoves himself in the middle of their seating up by the booth, tries to stare menacingly at everyone and everything that looks at him—earns a chortle from the pigeon, a very worried look from Jay.

Sh-Shut up... he can't help it. Lyla, like... she thought he was cool before she even met him, because she loves birds... and that meant... more to him than he'd like to admit. S-So if she's gonna for some reason have the heart to care about the derp with the really bad anime addiction, then, then he... wants to... return the favor and... be her friend.

Because then she has to be cool too, doesn't she? Y-Yeah... she's cool... he thinks she's cool...really cool...

Sh-Shut up. Shut up. Midge is more than enough. Midge and freaking Deli, that horrible excuse of a best friend.

Lyla and Jay start up another conversation through him. He likes hearing the soft gentleness the cafe gives to everything, their idle murmuring... it's warm. It really is.

And Jay has some really messed up stories.

He laughs beside himself. Ulh.

And then he nearly gags watching Lyla get her coffee served. Ulh, ulh, ulhhhhh.

And then, quietly, Lyla tugs on his sleeve. She's got those big wide eyes on her face again, her lips pursed and nibbled at like she's about to tell him something very important to her. Something she might've been holding in for some time now, by the looks of it... something she's been trying very, very hard at.

"Hey, um... this is... kinda random, but I've been starting to... y-y'know, figure out how... everyone is so messed up and sad and... that. Like Jay, and Fauna, and Camofrog and stuff... and I think he's... I think Jay's got a really cool sense of humor. And I wish he didn't lie to us like that. And I wonder what's going on inside of him..."

Then she's shy. Oh. Oh no. What does he say... uhhhhh...

"That's... that's, um. That's good. Th-That's good, Lyla."

She giggles very softly. Nods to him. Pulls back on him a little excitedly.

And completely sends her drink spilling all over her jacket.

It makes everyone start laughing way too loudly and Lucha feel so, so guilty, but then she's laughing too...  
and she's right. He turns over some, glancing at the bluejay beside him... and even if he is a little twitchy and strange, all that laxity in his face, the looseness...

it's a nice thing... isn't it?


	38. Til No One Can See the Start

Til No One Can See the Start

Oh... it's such a... such a pain. Such a pain to be stuck trying to fix things that won't let you fix them. To mend broken pieces of a soul you may have ripped off... ohh! This unrelenting heart! These broken emotions that throb so badly inside of her! Oh, why? Oh, please, why?

Angry paws rub at a frustrated face, burning red at the cheeks and at the ears, the nose drippy with tears of snot. She feels broken... she feels very broken...

The puppy bites a sigh out of her lips and tries once again to rub the dejection off her face. That abandoned feeling.. w-won't get her anywhere. She has to... has to... keep going! Y-Y-Yes that! Sh-She must try her best to feel unburdened by the pressure and the pain any of her futile efforts might give off onto her, because that'll only slow her down... and she can't be s-slowed down, because th-that ruins everything..!

It doesn't matter... no, doesn't matter. Just keep trying. Just keep going. She'll be really mad if she doesn't change, keeps the path ahead as it's been pointing and doesn't lift a single finger. Because then she'll just be dripping and crying of loneliness all over again... a-a-and that's not good...

S-So what if Lyla already had a costume on Halloween? Sh-She couldn't expect that to happen. Let go of it. A-And so what if she hasn't tried coming to the town hall and... and making amends! She's probably been busy...

you know... busy with... more important things...

The sunny yellow dog cups her face.

"Auuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

W-W-Well! Why hasn't _she_ made any moves? So she wanted to gift Lyla the costume, wanted to be the one to... w-well, she hadn't even mentioned it, and all this guilt has been harboring in her for some week or so now! All this guilt and failure... th-the whole reason she sobbed until Digby came over was because of that hole in her heart, the one where those sad feelings ate up.

Having a roommate was... unexpectedly nice. And Lyla—Lyla's not like the others. At least, she isn't _yet_. What if something happens and then she is swallowed up into all of that anxiety? And then her chances of b-befriending Lyla and trying to save the mess in Wherford... w-well! Without Lyla, her plan falls to the earth and just sits there. Useless. Useless like these fluffy yellow paws that can't... can't do anything f-f-for the life of her!

Digby doesn't like Lyla. Not after everything she's told him about that poor, pale girl. B-But it's not Lyla's fault she left her... they all knew it was gonna come to an end.

Pouty and face a snot-stained maze of blush, Isabelle folds her arms over her chest and stares perpetually at the ground beneath her. It makes all of these gross and gloppy sounds wherever she steps: even with the boots on, each step she takes causes shivers down her spine. Oh, Isabelle...

But... but her sweetly intolerant bo—brother... _brother_ isn't around. And now she... and now she... there it stands, in all of its grandeur! There it stands!

Isabelle takes great pained gasps of breath beneath her fluffy fingers. Her hair band jingles with each shiver her head gives, and her raincoat sticks heavily all around her. Like she's closed in... trapped into this one choice.

This is what she wanted. She wanted to find and reestablish her needed friendship with the brunette just inside that nice little home. It hasn't been changed much, a quite basic exterior: shingle roof, meets at the top-middle; wood-and-rock outside walling; wooden door; small but tidy enough porch.

Though it's probably this tidy because the occupant hasn't lived here long enough to mess it up just yet.

Oh... oh. That brings memories... memories of what's on the walls on the _inside_ , of what _is_ existent in Lyla's home. More than the one bed in the middle. All around her, surrounding her where she sleeps, the walls... the paint that's on the walls...

Lyla probably doesn't have a clue on what kind of friend of hers would go off and paint like that.

Probably doesn't remember Isabelle's hobbies and talents all that well to begin with. For some reason that sends a stab of pain into the dog here, not the girl herself; the sunny little dog, drenched in droplets, stands there and shudders for a good few moments.

It takes some time to get her courage flowing through her blood. She's not... very good at those kinds of things. She can't not think—her thoughts overwhelm her. Paranoia, what-ifs, fear, stress.

J-Just... just do it! You'll n-never know until you try! Even if Lyla did once harbor a grudge, she's probably forgotten all about it by now...

That doesn't boost her confidence.

Isabelle struggles to forget about that part, slamming herself just in front of the door and furiously, barbarously knocking and knocking on that wooden fixture. She's biting on her teeth and her hands sting but she has to... has to be sure she's gonna figure this one out. Y-You can't let everyone else do it all for you. C-Come on Isabelle.

Nobody answers to the door. Not even a laugh on the other side—one of those evil, hateful ones of those who watch Isabelle suffer in front of a seemingly-empty house. And pretend. And hate, hate, hate, seethe hate...

There's no way Lyla'd figure it out though. R-Right? That it's her? And then utterly, outright refuse to answer the door when she knocks? She can't possibly know that, right? _Right_?

Stubborn and flushed out of her mind, Isabelle slumps into the porch. She sighs loudly. No, her... her friend probably isn't home. Sh-She can still call her that—right? Friend? Oh... g-goodness. Lyla never thought this much. Probably can't hardly even tell.

Oh, this tyranny!

She'd better go look for the girl, then. Better go search her out. Maybe if Isabelle keeps wandering with her hopes up, she'll just stumble right into her friendly brunette. Y-Yes. Maybe.

The optimism is a little bad. A little much. B-But... But..!

Isabelle's fingers go to her pocket, where the bag of coins still lies. If she really needs it... but she... she's safe. It's safe here. She won't need it. It's not like... not like Marsh.

It's special here. And she's... special. One could say.

As is Digby. As is Nook... wh-wherever he is now. Probably not dead. N-No, Isabelle thinks not.

Frantic, she tears through the levels of mist and the water in the air as it pellets down below—she's on a mission, on a mission, and not until it's done will she be alright.

So she searches. Ripples into random parts of town and calls out her friend's name, desperate, desperate now and sobbing for it. She's out of breath and freaking out. Out of fret and breaking out. The tears on her face may as well be from the sky by this point. She is a wet, wet dog. And she's in pain. Oh, pain.

"Where are you! C-C-Come on...!"

Doesn't occur to her to ask around, she thinks... she thinks she sees the curly brown hair just in front of her... sometimes... only every time she reaches out, she only grows further behind, and it's such a sad thing, a sad, sad thing.

She runs out of daylight by the time she accepts that she's lost it.

But who can help it? Isabelle... Isabelle can't help it... not when... not when she's filled to brimming with a town where everyone's so...

It's just... awful...


	39. Nor the End

Nor the End

"Hmmnn..."

Sometimes she runs completely off of instinct. Never used her smarts much, anyways—what smarts? Psh. Nice one.

And thus, Lyla finds it in her to gently knock upon the shiny blue door in front. Oh, no, she doesn't have it in her to pester Jay twice in a row: nah, she'd feel kinda guilty. The poor guy's flailing about already; dunking him would add insult to injury, like, _ow_.

He's probably hiding in his house or something.

Oh come on, maybe give him a little credit? Lyla glances over at the blue-roofed home... oh, he's just outside again... stuffing himself into that funky wet suit of his—right, the thing she saw him in on the day they met. Huh. That thing always sort of creeped her out a little. It just... kinda did. Supposedly he'll go jogging and then, like, do his... cardio? Man. She never asked him what "cardio" even meant. These possibilities...

Ah, but she has something else to do for today! Humiliating Jay is _not_ on the list!

 _Pon, pon, pon._

Soon after the door is swished open, and the majestic spill of sparkles consumes poor Lyla—oh, too much! Too much sparkles! Too much perfume!—that's perfume, right? So much, yet so elegant, so glamorous: it perfectly frames the unicorn.

Scarlet eyeshadow today. It matches his pants—red jeans... mmh. It's a nice shade of red: dark, but not too dark. And oh, oh her goodness... is he _allowed_ to rock sweaters that well? He shouldn't be. It's killer. It's too much. Lyla just might break down sobbing right now.

Okay maybe she is exaggerating a little. Just go with it. Julian's _cool._

"Hm. How nice to see you again." His laughter is soft enough to almost sound like teasing. And yet this whisper fits him so well, fits the mood so rightly. "I admit I wasn't expecting you to return so soon... it surprised me a little." As Lyla kicks off her rain boots, she excitedly follows the lavish blue unicorn.

Past the entranceway comes a curtain, and through the curtain shows his nice sitting area. While the tiles are cold and blue, big, fluffy, white rugs make up for it, placed in considerate areas. There's a nice white couch, there's a big open window in the back, there's a lamp, a couple fortunate appliances—music player in the back—the bed—in the back—of course the bed—and... some baskets of flowers. Hanging by pegs in the upper walls, just around the room.

They smell heavenly; their waxy bodies suggest what might be trapped inside. Lilac beauties once... now encased forever. Alive and yet dead. Funny. Well, they smell nice. Like really nice. Julian's a slight weirdo but who cares when he rocks his sweaters and smells so... so sparkly?

Of course it's possible to smell sparkly.

They ensconce themselves in that lovely couch and Lyla rests her somewhat-misty head. It hasn't started full-out raining, at least not yet, but it was still cold and a little dreary. Her nose stuffed up some. Fun. She wishes _she_ smelled like sparkles, but doesn't everyone? It's Julian's thing, and it suits him well.

Little talks plague their first murmurs. She never really got to know the guy, just that he was one of them... one of them in Marsh, and that apparently someone she might possibly know—even the ditz has her suspicions—more or less "gave" him to the town? Whatever? Does that work? She never knew much about these people anyways... might as well let them get... weirder.

That's all they do, the more she gets to know them... most of them.

The worst part of her strange little relationship with Lucha was... the beginning. Her heart doesn't hurt looking at him; it's not like he's... he doesn't quite fit in with... them. Anymore. No. Once, surely... he did. But somehow the derp was inspired by the girl, and now he's... he really is different somehow. She can't even put her finger on it: not on a feeling in her heart. But it's so strange. So... strangely warming.

Julian must've noticed the weird face she was making. "What is it that's on your mind, if I may pry?"

"Pshhhh, yeah, sure pry on." Lyla can't help but giggle. "I was just thinking about Wherford, honestly. Heh. It's a really weird place, yeah? I swear you Marsh guys knew better than me, and you guys didn't even live here."

A soft, sour smile coats Julian's lips. "Yes. We always had amiable relations with Wherford. I believe it was Freya who found us, invited the lot of you over first, back when everything was still anew."

She asks it before she thinks about it.

"Like... when things were first, I dunno, sprouting?" Small nod. "Like... like when the tree first—"

The deadly look she receives in return both confirms and silences. The breath in Lyla's stomach goes _splurt_ to her toes.

She doesn't have to specify which tree that grew.

Quietly, she asks, "What is it that," more cautious now, "that made everything... how it is today?" This isn't... this isn't... natural. That's it. None of this is natural. It just feels wrong looking at it from the outside: like staring at a monster through glass...

only it's so easy to break the glass... to let it in...

"Nnnh. That's quite a story you're asking for," he murmurs. The scarlet over his eyes flickers with his slight blinking, flickering like the start of a fire. "And besides, I'm sure only Freya knows it all. She and Fauna have been here the longest, I'd say. But you don't ask Fauna those kinds of things." No. Oh no. You don't, do you? Not Fauna.

Doesn't think about it again. "How did it happen, though? Like... is it still happening? Could it happen to..." To us? Could one morning Lyla wake up and suddenly be a... a _thing_ , or _whatever_?

"You don't know all that much less than I do." Julian's grin turns rueful. A little sad. "If you have so many questions, you should figure them out for yourself, eh? But I don't think it works that simply. You can try. I'll believe in you, if it helps at all."

He's scared.

"Hwah! I'll very kindly accept your belief and burn it as fuel for my journey!"

He's scared of it happening to him. The process, the pain, the... whatever it is. He's scared of finding out more than he already knows.

"Heheh... Yeah, I'll be watching out for you. You're a good one, Lyla. And the others like you too. I have to say thank you for visiting me so numerously..."

He's scared because right now his knowledge is but a puddle, but a starved stream to be standing in. And he's scared of the levels rising and taking him with them, of drowning in it all.

"Of course. You're fun! And it's cool not being the only new one. Plus... you know, you're not... like them. Heh..."

He's scared of never rising to the surface again.

"Thank you, thank you. I must say, Lyla, there's a reason we were brought here. Might be a really bad reason. But I must say it was nice to meet you."

Those aquamarine eyes... they are like water, so bright and bubbly, bouncy. Nonthreatening—Lyla is harmless. She couldn't hurt anything, no. Those hands are too small; her eyes are too full of hopeful light. And she doesn't have enough thoughts in her head to put in a plan to even dream of scratching someone.

She's one of those people.

There are those who easily cut into others without thinking, and those who do the opposite. Lyla is one of those: one of the latter.

That much is obvious, child's play to the eye.

She's too much of a fool to go without wandering into those waters... too much of a fool not to stumble into the wake...

but that doesn't necessarily mean she'll drown, does it? Well. It could. She could. Neither of them know just what they're getting into. Which could be bad. Really bad.

But all that hope in one place... he can't help it. He does like Lyla. She's stupid but she's fun, forgetful but she's smiling, always smiling... emotional.

Interesting. Very.

He can't help but hope she'll show up out of nowhere again...

"Pahaha! Nice too meetcha too!"


	40. So On Goes the Cycle

So On Goes the Cycle

Lyla has been given a very important job—yes—very important! She must use all of her senses and all of her willpower and all of the strength stuffed into her tiny, pale body to do just as they asked of her, because they are counting on her. And running out of their bell stash. So.

Fishing.

Wasn't that what Freya said? This economy of theirs in their little district—Butterfly, Wherford, Zoosis, and—oh wait—just those three—r-right. It runs off of fish, runs off of bugs. Other consumer goods: flowers, some craftsmanship, just little things that can be wisely exported to wherever they go.

Anyways. Fishing.

Today Lyla is going to catch a shark.  
Well that's the plan at least.

Distractedly she glances at the house by her perch, the cliff just tucked under Frita... where she lives. She chews a bit at her lip, stares into the dark windows like they have secrets hidden in their enclosing black. Maybe they're just pretending they don't, but actually—actually... maybe. Sh-She doesn't know.

Today she will catch a shark and make everyone like _so_ proud of her. It'll be great. A few shiny, water-brimming tanks sit beside her: already she's made quite the catch. They call it a sea bass. She calls it Pride.

It takes a bit of a reach with the arm to swing her line out into the ocean—and quite a line really makes her arm sore—but each time the bait and the pole go _gloop_ into the water, she just feels all warm and fuzzy on the inside, and ready.

Only she's really bad when it comes to the art of fishing.

Come on... come on... something's tugging a little—but wait—waaaiiiit-give it some time and it'll bite... really bite... ah—ahh! Go go go _go GO LYLA GO_!

She nearly ends up in the sand, that fish tugging so hard it's pulling her in... she chews harder into her lip and pulls even more fiercely, though that's not all that much strength added since the last one. It's about belief! It's about the belief in power and her attempt that makes her think she's doing super duper duper great! And she is! And she will make it count! Hwah, hwah, hwah!

A tiny red thing goes _plurp_ in her lap. Oh. Wait. Ridges. Curled body. Oh.

Gently the girl places her new seahorse in the tank with the sea bass. She feels only marginally pathetic.

"Hunh. If you were a fish, you'd probably be that seahorse, don'cha think?"

Ulh? Is that—no wait it's not Frita, Frita's louder and angrier, more boisterous too: why assume Frita in the first place? Ahah _haaaa_ why would she do that. Fiercely Lyla blinks at the sea in front of her. A slender, turquoise-furred creature who goes just to Lyla's chest takes her seating beside.

Her tail is so fluffy. Oh gosh. Lyla wants to touch it but the glare in those steely orbs suggest otherwise.

Nibbles is in one of those oversized t-shirts and some stuffy sweatpants today.

Odd. She doesn't usually dress like... doesn't she prefer... prefer... cute clothes—yeah that? Lyla nearly outright asks her when the squirrel continues speaking—"Because they're small. Very small. I mean, I'm small too, but seahorses are _insignificantly_ small, _forgotten_ small. Abandoned, eh?"

"Uh?" The brunette blinks. "Well that's cool and all, but today I need to catch a shark for everyone. So if you don't mind me paying all of my attention on the sea..." She can't help but wince, just looking into those mascara-smeared eyes.

"Oh no, that's fine. We need the bells anyways." Nibbles's chattery voice is so high-pitched and dainty and yet... aloof, stilted, foppish. Ulh. Makes Lyla nervous.

She acted a little differently when Camofrog was around... heck! When they first met she acted differently! Right? Yeah! She did. Oh no what did Lyla do to get on this turquoise pipsqueak's bad side, what did she do. And why this... this very interesting attitude?

Maybe Lyla's just imagining things. It's not exactly an uncommon trait of hers.

And then like an unsuspecting and relentless thunderstorm, the voice returns. "But you can't even _catch_ sharks in October, it's a summer thing. And Halloween is strictly _October, hon_. Don'cha know that? Gosh! How stupid are you? Besides, there's, like, no good fish at all in October, they're mostly inexpensive little things like your seahorse. Trivial matters," sniffs the squirrel.

Is it just Lyla or did everything get really uncomfortable. It's like a death sweater was tossed on top of all this itchy tension. Where did it even come from? Ullh, it's hot, it's freaking her out. Lyla shoves her head into her legs for a moment, breathes, and goes back to tossing her fishing pole into the water: _plunk_.

Nibbles is silent. The girl spares one look into those steely orbs and flinches. Tries to think up a conversational topic. Something. Anything. Somehow a quiet Nibbles is much scarier than one stuffing words down pale Lyla's throat.

"Umm! Um." Blush. "If... if I'm a seahorse, okay. Then what does that make you? Out of... curiosity. That is." Her soft and stupid mumbles pale considerably in comparison to the snappy remark that struts out of the squirrel's throat.

"Why do you care? What does it mean to you? Fish are stupid, anyways. We should talk about bugs. I'll be a butterfly and you can... b-be a snail! Y-Y-Yeah!" What? Okay. Lyla will rock being a snail. Snails are fun.

Pause. "Hnnn? Then maybe... maybe you're a cockroach."

"Eww, do I have to be? I mean... they're cool, I guess, but they're still kinda gross."

A great blush spills across Nibbles's face as she squeaks: "Yes, yes, you have to be one! You have to be a cockroach now! You have to be!"

"Awwwwww. Hookay then." Butterfly, cockroach. What a stark difference. Not that Lyla minds all that much. Besides, they both have wings. So.

Wings. As do fairies... as do birds... don't they? Birds. Lucha.

Nibbles.

Well obviously not everyone has a strange liking to her.  
That's okay.

Out of nowhere a great, intense _tug_ shoves Lyla off her feet and into the sands, nearly plopping into the ocean and into the jaws of whatever foul creature is this—this! From nearby, hearing her fall, out scuttles a certain monkey who snaps his hands onto the pole alongside her: in harmony they pull, pull, pull at whatever monstrous thing is on the other end.

It must be a really, really big fish—maybe it _is_ a shark! Holy heck! It might be a shark! They might get a shark! Oh, that would be so awesome!

Maybe it is a shark. Shifty and manipulative, bulky, fierce, terrifying, invoking fear into one's heart and terrorizing them for as long as they can.

Nibbles stares horrifyingly at the great quake being forced in by the motions.

And slowly, shifting, out with a _pop_ like a cork of the ocean comes their... fish. Is that a fish?

The tiny nose on Nibbles's face shrivels up.

"What kinda fish is this, Deli?" Lyla's softly cheering, it must be really cool—and maybe this is the fish Nibbles was talking about!

A small smirk covers Deli's lips as he kicks at their new-found tire. Nibbles grits her teeth.

Giggling, Lyla bites her lip so hard she accidentally sends tiny little blood droplets racing down her chin.


	41. Never to be Ceased

Never to be Ceased

"Oh, goodness! Why the heck are you visiting _me_ of all people? My house is rather uninteresting!"

"But you visited me last, and I figured it would be uncouth of me not to return the favor to you. Besides, a bit of extra space is no harm. You will soon enough have filled your chambers with what you find suitable for your tastes."

"Ahhh! You speak so nobly of my humble abode!" As if she was stabbed in the heart, Lyla collapses onto the floor with her hands over her chest graciously.

Softly the unicorn in front giggles. Perhaps it is a bit of an annoyance that her room is so drab, but she hasn't lived very long in any kind of home; it's only to be expected that she's had no form of... well. Much at all. Nothing but the clothes on her back and the grime on her face when she arrived, wasn't that what they said? Making up for it is quite the personality. Silly girl.

He pauses just after trotting into the chamber. "Mmh..? Is this a staircase I spy in your entranceway, Lyla?"

She turns around, eyes on the ground. "Oh, thaaat? Umm... there's nothing up there. I have yet to put my foot on the first step of that staircase. I—honestly, Freya thought it'd be a good idea to get me more than one room... for some reason. I guess she had the money or whatever. S-So anyways I have an upstairs that I haven't even set foot into."

"Divine." Smile.

Then they move more into her singly occupied chamber and he learns exactly what it means to live literally only off the clothes on one's back.

A single bed in the room. In the middle. Not the tastiest of fashion choices but it is all she has. A simple bed: white, with a rather simple frame and sheets, although there is the exceptional paint splotch here and there. From the pictures painted onto the ceiling, he presumes? The same goes with the walls and floor, even, but only the ceiling would have the capability to attack the bed below.

It's a bit old, a bit worn, but obviously the girl is thankful for her space—for even a small bed alone.

"Who gave it to you?" Palpable what he's asking about.

Silent for a moment. "Um... I'm not completely sure. Heh. The others probably brought together whatever junk they had: someone with some extra sheets, someone had pillows, another got the bed frame... Honestly, I don't know. All of them. I guess."

All of them... what a sentimental tie. No wonder tattered little Lyla is thoroughly thankful. He would be, too. That said, Julian has more than enough furniture in what he's hoping is a nicely-arranged manner, well set up and well put together, an ensemble of the beauty he surely sees it as. Lyla's a different person.

She feels welcome. Even in the eyes of those who see differently... in the eyes of the selfish and the grabby. Maybe she doesn't see it, but that doesn't change her feelings.

A sweet girl.

Why did her parents let her leave? Hmph. Another mystery for another day.

Well, he supposes, not everyone thinks alike. But still... she's twenty-two and she's fawning over this old bed the others had to put together for her. It's... strangely sad.

Instinct proposed Julian use a sunny yellow eyeshadow today. It sticks out from the sparse room and the spare lighting.

"Do you have any idea what to fill in all these empty spaces with?" He hums with his words.

Lyla's smile is small, fragile. "Memories, of course." The word is warm on his heart. Memories. She spoke without another thought, memories.

Then the bed and the paintings fit right in. What's on those walls, what's on that ceiling, what covers the floor anyways? What is it with that amount of paint? It must have taken hours of delicate placement and work and willpower to add so much color to this one room. There are abstract flutters of paint, and loopy lines, and small depictions of faces he can recognize from villagers and other little memories: and all over these pockmark the paw prints.

Ah. That's who. He could see it.

She's strangely attracted to the stupid girl. Not that there's anything wrong with stupid girls: she merely is one. Seems to make a lot of the villagers smile either way. Like a pet. Somewhat.

 _P-P-P-P-P-P-P-PON._

What a hesitant knock interrupting his reverie.

"Yeeaaaaaah!" calls the brunette herself. "Come innnnn! It's unlooooocked!"

Oh, look who it is: none other than the strawberry red bird himself. He's flustered again; oh, isn't he always. Julian never quite "got along" with Lucha: but then again, it doesn't look like anyone other than that monkey ever got very far at all. That monkey and Lyla. What did she do to win over him? Deli called him a derp for crying out loud. There's a reason he is one.

It's funny how awkward Lucha remains no matter the circumstance. "H-H-Hi... U-Uhhh, I didn't expect you to have... s-someone over! Iiiiiif this is a bad time I-I can always leave..."

"Aw, Lucha! I'll be sad if you leave!" Lyla pouts some in response. "Plus, like, uh, Julian, you won't mind if he stays, right? He's... sort of chill. Sometimes. Ahah."

Chortle. "Ah, no, I wouldn't mind in the slightest."

Lucha's eyes widen as he mumbles, "But are you really sure you wouldn't m-m-mind? A-Are you sure? H-How sure? H-H-How sure..?"

He smiles. "Very sure." Lucha is such a funny one.

They devote then their time to idle chitchat and words without all that much meaning. But still, steadily Lucha eases, though every once in awhile he'll warily eye the unicorn with them. A nervous one, he. What makes Lyla's presence so easy to relax in, he's not sure, but there is something. Well of course she isn't like the others of this town—Lucha was, once upon a time. Something about that girl...

Julian worries for her. She's idle and soft and stupid, and forgetful enough to lose sight of what's most important: staying alive, staying... okay, if that's such a thing still possible. Staying okay.

But he's a little thankful, too. He's seen in action the kinds of things that happen to the villagers of Wherford: he has a clear enough understanding to see how it works, how it sneaks up and... well. He's fine. He's fine...

A selfish thought, and yet a pleased one.

When the boys leave the girl to whatever it is Lyla does in her spare time—sleep, maybe—she must be exhausted from all kinds of things—Lucha grows silent and nervous once again. There is no trace—miraculously—of the anime addiction that nigh broke him.

And then he pulls a flower out of his pocket. It's a bit mangled by this time, petals drooping, spine bent.

"He-Hey, um," he squeaks, "um. I wanted to... to ask you something. Ummm." It's hard for the guy to keep his thoughts in one place. "If... if... I don't know how you did it or where you bought it... but I was wondering if... those flowers. The flowers you have in your house, the, like, immortal ones, whatever those are. I was wondering if... um..."

He clutches the little thing to his chest. "I-It's not like I want it, but um... um..."

Softly the unicorn smiles.

Something happened indeed.

"Yes, of course. Why don't we go to my house now and I'll show and tell you more?"


	42. By the Hands of Those Weak and Weary

By the Hands of Those Weak and Weary.

Pant, pant, pant, pant... her lungs can't fill any faster... oh, it's been so long! B-But finally! Finally! _There_ she is, just standing there in the middle of the trees by Julian's house, curly hair bouncing around her shaking head and own pained gasps. Oh, she can't believe it. Finally. Moment of truth... moment of truth. She shuffles from her hiding place, stops, and winces. What if she hates he—oh, get over it already! C-Come on!

Lyla then rubs her fingers over her cheeks, staring through the open slits and puffing them. She had a reason for coming this far from her home... a really good reason, because leaving her house all this much makes her a little angsty. But she... she felt like it. She felt like it. Then again, she runs on everything like that, and Lyla's chock full of bad ideas. But... she felt like it. What kind of heartless monster doesn't listen to their feelings?

Well. Smart people. Well Lyla isn't smart! Sorry! Moving on!

She stands, feet in v-formation from her body, hands on her hips—her old bunny-tail dress stretching about her. Hey, she's not getting rid of it. She loves this thing; plus one laundry load of Fauna's mysterious aspiring power really gets the dirt out. Like. Really. Maybe it still almost doesn't fit—but whatever. She did stop growing.

And that's about when the fluffy hug tackles her down. Mud in her face—all over the front of her body— _splottttch_. Oof. Fauna's not gonna like that. No she's not.

"A-AAaaaaahhhh!

Oh dear what is that?

"Y-Y-YOU MUST HATE ME EE-EEEEVEN MORE NOW THAT I'VE COVERED YOU IN MUD! OHHHH, I'M AWFUL, AWFUL, AWFUL! AAUUHHH I'M SORRYYYYYY! WAUHHHHHHhhhh..." Whimpers caress this squeaky, screeching voice, give it even more of an edge.

Lyla sits there in the mud, a brown, mucky beard of sludge coating her chin, feeling like the worst person to ever exist. "U-U-Ummm..?" She chews again at her lip—something her lip rather hates. Already she's reopening wounds from earlier with the fish. Oop.

Hiccups, hiccups. Puncturing the air behind her head. "LYYLAAAA! AHHH, I'M SORRY, I'M SORRY!"

Promptly the body on top of her slips and falls and lands as well. _Splort_. And then Lyla's left side was also coated in mud. Oh how fun.

Great big blue puppy eyes fill with tears. "I-I-I... aaaaauh..."

Wait. _Wait_. That's not who she thinks it is—that's not who she thinks, is it? Oh no. No it has to be. Nobody else looks like that. Sweet poor puppies...

"Hey. Isabelle." Lyla's staring at her a little incredulously. "What are you... what are you doing here? I-I haven't seen you in awhile, and then I got angsty, and I kept trying to see you... and then I forgot... ohhh, I'm sorry, oh, gosh, I'm sorry..." Embarrassed and shamed, her pale palms go before her eyes.

"Wh-Wh-Why are _you_ s-sorry! I'm the awful one here! I'm the embarrassment! I'm the failure! I'm... I'm horrible! Gyaaaaaahh!"

Lyla stares wide-eyed at the dog for a moment there. Then slowly, regretting that she's so mucky, she pulls at her sweet, fuzzy friend and attempts to capture her in a hug.

Isabelle squirms a little before giving in. Her cold dog nose pokes against Lyla's shoulder. She smiles softly into the mud.

Big breath. "You're not horrible. Please don't say that... I-I mean. Maybe you're really upset about what you did and what didn't happen, but... that's all in the past anyways, and nothing could be completely your fault. I didn't go to you in the first place. You've done a whole lot for me and I... I'm sorry I didn't know what to do for you in turn."

Quietly the mucky little dog, all cold and sniveling, shivering and whimpering, mutters something wordless into Lyla's shoulder. Her skin tingles where the breath hit. Isabelle's surprisingly warm for being wrapped up in all this chill like a present. But that's it—she is a present.

"Oh, gosh. I'm sorry. Could you repeat that?"

In a tiny rasp: "Friend... friend."

"Ohhh." She blushes predictably. "O-Of course!" Then shakes her head. She didn't mean it to be aloof in any way—because _of course_!

She stares off past Isabelle's tight, shivering arms, off into the trees in the distance. "I'm sorry I've been such a forgetful me. Heheh... I know I can be quite the handful." Her laugh strengthens. "Just ask poor Freya. I don't know how many times she's wanted to skin me alive... yet she sticks with me still, eh? With everyone, really. It's kind of... amazing."

Nodding fiercely, Isabelle murmurs, "It is, it is... Freya's r-really i-intense..."

 _Choo!_ She squeaks off into a sneeze and Lyla just about squeals.

"Ohhhh my goodness, your sneezes are so cute! Ahh!"

Then they're both blushing sorely, and they both feel like big embarrassed dummies. Yet it's a good feeling, like a sound seed sprouting in the pit of one's soul. A good feeling.

Isabelle speaks clearly now. "I don't... I don't mind that you're a... 'forgetful you.' I-I-I like that... hon-honestly. I think... I think... it's cool. It's a good cool, a-a good d-d-different."

"Camofrog wants to know why I haven't died yet," giggles Lyla.

"Eheheh... I'm sure we all do! But I-I'm ve-ve-veeery relieved you never di—ied... And Lucha I know is really happy about that. H-He's changed s-s-so much... what are you, Lyla?"

Lyla can't keep the stupid smile off her stupid face. She thinks she has a slight case of frostbite by this point. It's chilly... "I dunno. What are you guys gonna do with me? Ahahaaaa!"

And then Isabelle's laughing. It's a nice little feeling in the nice little doggy—oh, she's so sweet. "I don't know, but th-thank you for coming wh-when you did..! There's... m-me, and Lucha... a-and even Julian's pretty relaxed a-about the whole thing..." She smiles off in a faraway stare.

Thunder above their heads rumbles greedily, as if in agreement.

"O-Oop... maybe we should step into the train station and, like, stand under the roof or something, let the droplets scrub at..." She takes in Isabelle's rubbery, rain-proof attire and sucks in her cheeks. "But it looks like I'm the only one who messed up bad. Oops." And cue the blush.

"Eheheh... no no, it's fine. You probably need it." Besides... there's still something else... something else she needs to... needs to ask... about...

Isabelle looks away, biting her cheek as Lyla nibbles her lip. They walk hand in hand toward the train station and just stand there for some time. With the dribbling of the soon-overpowering droplets and the waterfalls of clean wetness, somehow there is a peace.

The brunette takes another look around. "Mmmh. Maybe we should stay inside it too, for a little while. The rain's... pretty bad."

"W-Wait..!"

"Nnh?" Lyla turns back round as Isabelle tugs tightly at her hand.

She's blushing again. Her nose is running. She could be confused for sickness. "I-I... A-About what I was saying!" Her squeak is so soft and yet cracked... but not as cracked as other things she's seen in this town. "About what I was saying—about the... helping me! Um... um! It's a little selfish... and it's a lot to ask for... but um... Lyla...

She slowly turns to her friend. "Everyone you've been getting to know so far... everyone you've been talking with... y-you've gotten so much farther than I ever h-had a-a-at anything. That'd be... that is... if you could... keep up with them, as you keep up with me... and keep us together..."

She wants to say it but she's scared. The word's a strange one: Save. Save. Let's save them, Lyla. She must sound... crazy. Wanting to "save them." Save the other villagers from... from this. She's special—as is Digby. As are others. They're special and it's not like what's going on in here, what's happened to Marsh... what's been causing all of this pain for so long now. Time in Wherford is so strange... what could have been five years of living here may feel like de-decades to them...

But... but _she_ got Lucha out of his shell. That shell. It only makes sense she wouldn't understand, and maybe the first one was supposed to be easy... but... but... ohh..!

"Hey." A hand cups over the dog's fluffy shoulder. "Ease up. I'm here. Eheh. I might forget or act stupid, so go ahead and remind me. I'm not going anywhere. Right here.

Then she mumbles out of the side of her mouth, "And if you could ask Digby to like me more... well that'd be great."

"Eheheheh..."

And then they step into the gentle warmth, the safety of the train station. The wood that protects the tears of the sky from soaking them, the stable structure that holds them together... the train that slowly draws off from wherever it had gone, chugging merrily away through the chilling rain.

Wait.

There's something there—in the middle of the floor. Yes—just there.

Grimy... gaunt... unconscious... ooh—that smell...

And then the light of the train reflects off of something or another and lands like a perfect spotlight on the rug of a body lying as if asleep on the ground.

Breath leaves Lyla's lips, drains from her stomach. Suddenly she aches, and she aches horribly. Her head is pounding... her eyes—is she seeing things? Is that...

Oh, but she'd know that curly, golden coat anywhere... and that warm brown skin.. and that _purple eyeliner.._. that thing she always wore...

Gently she pokes at Isabelle, who promptly collapses into screeching sobs.

"Oh. Um. Hey, hey hey! This is our chance! _Isabeeeelleeeee_! Yo! Come onnn let's gooooo!"

She launches herself toward their mucky, scratched, unconscious friend, gently trying to cradle the surprisingly small and light body. Her fur made her look so formidable... so big and bold... Now it's plastered to her sides.

Isabelle's screaming and sobbing in the background. Welp. So much for that. But that's okay, that's okay. Lyla's here. She'll... figure this out.

Come on, Isabelle, this is our chance... this is our chance...

She takes hold of her lips. "Chance for... for what, hm?" She stares into the earth, all big eyes.

She doesn't know.

Hunh. She blinks. Turning. Frita's unconscious figure reared into her face.

So... you can't run away from your problems then; like it's the most practical thing to wonder.

And then it hits her, sends a threatening dark light through her eyes.

You can't escape.

 _You can't escape._

And quietly she asks herself, "Escape what..?

 **Dun dun dunnnn! What's wrong with Frita! What's going on! The suspense thickens!**

 **For those tallying up what's going on with the villagers and who's more or less better of sorts (as hinted at at the end of the first arc with a certain strawberry bird) you can count Lucha and Julian now. Julian never really got affected in the first place, but whatever chances are mostly null now.**

 **And Isabelle and—as she mentions—Digby—Nook—are in a realm of their own...**

 **What does this all mean? Why is Starry such a weirdo? Why indeed.**


	43. These Tiny, Tiny Hands

These Tiny, Tiny Hands

"Freya?"

Sigh. "Yes, Lyla?"

"I mean... I know you and Fauna wanted me to come here eventually... and all that... and whatever." Her fingers are in front of her; she's fiddling with the front of her dress. "But like..." It's a new dress, not her tattered old one. Doe in question has decided it's about time she taught Lyla how to fix that poor starched soul. "I mean, like... I dunno. Do you ever get a bad feeling about something and then decide you better not do it?"

"Well Lyla, have you ever gotten the feeling your friend was calling sick when she wasn't truly sick in order to keep herself from doing things she didn't want to do?" Ooh! That sting! Cruel, Freya! Take a step _back_!

Lyla, then fiddling with her lip, her little teeth dull and uncompromising, lets her head fall and hang a little. "Okay. _Okay_. Go ahead and put the noose around me, why won't you? I'm _sorry_ that I'm _worried_." Buh!

That leaves the wolf quiet. Huh. Is she fed up or nervous? Is she sorry that _she's_ a little worried? Psh, probably not. Freya's too... too punk for that life. Right? Right? She glances back at the pink-furred punk in question, hands clasped in front of her, having calmed themselves again. She is silent; they both are.

Fauna hums her sweet little tune as she skips behind them.

Okay... okay. Lyla did leave without her own abidance. Freya showed up in the doorstep of the town hall—like she has so many times before—and demanded the brunette leave with her now. Lyla didn't want to. Freya added that _Fauna_ was coming. Okay great: that was gonna help how?

Well. It is rather cruel to say no to those big, caramel eyes... the wolf instead bears sharp yellow suns that just _make_ you wanna get out of the way. Beneath those suns is currently naught but piles of semi-folded laundry, so it practically forces you to look at them: but they're so scary! _Why_!

But... still. Even so. With all this. Frita's not in a very good condition. Very delicate. Like a lily, a pretty little lily. She means... yeah. Isabelle's still there; though that dog guy who was with her—boyfriend?—brother?—Digby, him—he's gone. Though he had that feeling around him that he was gonna come back someday... oh she wonders.

A squeak punctures the air. "Ahh! Ummm! Ly-Lyla! Please move! I don't want to bump into you a-again and send all of this laundry flying!"

Oh wait. Dumbfounded, the pale girl steps aside and onward. She turns to face the doe nearly swamped in their laundry: her tidy container is no match for all of it. Well then again... there's what, twelve people living in Wherford? Dang, no wonder Freya goes with her. There's no way poor little Fauna should be expected to carry it all.

It's a rather short walk from the train station into a nice, tidy area. Or at least as nice and tidy as the outdoors goes. There is one big building spouting off into one or two smaller buildings: the big building huge and foreboding and wood as well as rock—at the bottom—with the most foreboding and big sign ever:

 **POST OFFICE**.

Okay. Not so foreboding after all. But big: its largeness consumes this tiny tidy area.

To one side, the left, lives another tidy place. At one point, judging by all the particularly-carved signs, this was a shoe store: now it boasts of an expansion—if Lyla's reading this right—involving clothes.

Huh. Clothes. She knew somebody who sold clothes... oh. R-Right. They were... they were in _Marsh_ , right.

Finally to the right—hardly to be called a building—lies a tent. Purple. A very nice tent. Hints of gold at the top and a waft of strange-smelling perfume if you happen to walk by—and Lyla does. Perhaps strange-smelling, the perfume also suggests some wonderful, rich, enchanting scent. And from the looks of it, like all the other tidy buildings here, this one hasn't moved in some time.

But like! Tent! Isn't the purpose of a tent _not_ to stay in place!

Man, she's already getting a bad feeling. But she guesses if Freya finds it safe enough to tote her sweet little best friend here and allow her to pop in the laundry, then it can't be that bad.

They enter in on the middle building, the big and now not as foreboding one. Fauna, having squeezed ahead, enters first, quickly followed by the wolf. It's obvious they're ready to lose the laundry, for at least a couple hours.

On the way in, Lyla can't help but stop and look at the little plant on the side. It's roses—roses?—or maybe they're cosmos, she doesn't know. They smell nice: like roses... or cosmos. Either way. That's not what stops her so furiously—as within the flower pot there is a paper flower, folded carefully and creased so gently in such a way that suggests... a certain kind of love was put into this art.

Because she's seen it before, and also because why not, Lyla yanks this out of the flower pot—stabbing a finger with a thorn in the process—aha! roses!—and thus quickly pulls and unfolds and coaxes the letter open.

She tries to keep her stupid bloody finger away—it doesn't even hurt that much—but the dumb, throbbing thing manages a splatter of red on the paper. Lyla grunts, reading furiously.

 **You're smart, _you_ should understand-  
they're not _dead_. They're just _gone_.**

 **Trust me.**

Yeah. She's seen this before. Confused, once more, she leaves the crumpled thing half-folded and now smushed into the convenient pocket of her dress.

What was the word the blood landed on? Oh, what do you think?  
Dead. How... iconic of it.

She dabs at her finger, worrying at the bloodflow until she's particularly sure it won't stain anything and won't drip anymore. Man. One stab and that was all it took. Sneaky roses.

A wave toward the two girls nearing the back and she's out the door again. They'll be here for a couple hours waiting... no big deal if she explores, right? And there's tons of people here...

But she swears as she exits that she catches just in the edge of her aquamarine eye—at the edge of peripheral vision—there is brown—and a darker brown—and it made up the form of a tanuki she'd seen only once before.

Not _dead_ , just _gone_ , you say. _Hookay_ then.

Lyla's head throbs.

Upset and aching, she shakes at her head—oh! Where are all the hopelessly unfamiliar faces when you need them! It's like fresh air from a deathly situation... without thinking—when is she thinking, really?—she charges off into the strange-smelling perfume trail leading into the purple tent. Her curls go flying about her, breaths in small pants, and a seat in front of the lady waiting.

Oh man. She dresses... in silks. Pretty silks. Surely. Strung along her body in skirts, in a blouse-like top, and about her head too. Eyeshadow addresses those big golden orbs; a bit of rouge on the cheeks; balm upon the lips. And that scent, that strange, enchanting scent that comes up in flurries with each of her movements.

A panther of dark, intriguing fur. She murmurs something in her deep silky voice: "Please... call me Katrina. Now I suppose I should ask what you are here for?

"Mmmm... kee, hah, hah..." Orbs narrowed. Face scrutinizing. Too many wrinkles pushed into her skin for Lyla to count. "Ah. Child of man... are you not from the town which celebrates Hallow's Eve to a rather... constant? The rainy town, the misty town? Yes?" She keeps her body perched, ready to pounce.

Lyla blinks. Slowly. "Uh? Oh, that's me! Yeah! I'm... from Wherford now, I guess. A, um... the, well, the newbie. I guess..."

She nods, lulling, passionate. "Keee, kee... ah, but of course, little one. It is to my delight you haven't broken. That is a feat, I would say... a feat. But, ah... it shall not last for long. Non. Even the strongest... and I doubt you are, even the strongest shall fall eventually."

"Yes, yeah! They're already planning another Halloween for like... next week!" Lyla nods, transfixed.

"Aah, yes, yes. Keee..." Katrina nods as well, because of course, this has to do with _everything._ But of course, of course.

Murmuring to herself, she then raises her voice again to the girl: "Would you like to have your fortune read? If you would like... I could extend to reading your _past_ as well."

"Whh?" Lyla blinks again.

The panther nods. "Ahhh. It is as some of the villagers ask. There is not much for the future, a very bleak sight indeed, but there was something—still—at some time, then. Something. Hope. Whatever. Would you like that?" There is a small smile upon her lips.

"Uhhh... I dunno. I'm kind of boring, I guess. Especially my past, not that interesting... so... so I'm sure there are better fortunes out there to tell, er, retell? Eheh. Like the others back home..." Lyla smiles contentedly at the tabletop in front of her.

There is a rumbling of the throat within the panther. "Ahhh... very well. It is well." The small smile shifts to some point, a little bigger, a little wider. "Then I ask if you are here for a story, perhaps?"

As if sleepy, the girl slowly shuffles her head into a nod. Her aquamarine orbs have yet to close, and there is a small light inside of them, dancing within the pupils.

"Then I will tell you one." And Katrina sits as well. "This is a recent story... about a recent time. About a girl, not much younger than me... ahh... It was better, then... yes, it was a better time, recently."

The girl nods, absorbed.

Katrina nods then in turn. There is a shadow in her eye, where the light in Lyla's takes refuge. "We were free... not just me, no. He and I, we were both free. We did a lot of running... and we would not bear stay in any area for very long—least of all your town—no, that was the danger zone. But like walking into the belly of a bus... it was required. Sometimes.

"We were very happy. Together. Running. But it was only... a matter of _time_." Small laughter in her gaze. A sarcastic and sad laughter. As if in old habit, she pulls a great, gold coin from by her and rubs along its well-worn edges. "For _he_ knows all, no? He knows all. A matter of time before he scooped us up and stuck us in like a stubborn old tent's spokes... never to leave this earth again. Ahhhh... what is it to be special, truly? Kee..."

"What is is name?" mutters Lyla, stupidly.

She doesn't ask which one. "Kicks." Softly. "He's over there now. Across the road... but it's hard to see him. It hurts in a place I can't quite describe..."

Her smile goes bitter on her lips. The eyes nigh shut, tiny catlike slits all that is left. "Perhaps one day, perhaps the next time I see you, shall _you_ understand too.

She turns off topic. "Have you heard of the little cat? Katie, I think was her name. She's trying to run, too... I am afraid of the day she realizes that running is no ruse, hiding is no use. Because then she will be lost too... ahh, lost like all of us... I suppose..."

Eventually Lyla takes her leave with a nod—and the insistent yelling of a certain pink wolf.

And after the visitors have left, and what could be night or could not be darkens the horizon, an old tanuki visits the panther then too.

"Ahhh... were you worried she remembered you, Nook?"

"Well." Sigh. "Katrina, it's only a matter of time for she. Only a matter of time..."

They both laugh, very softly, at the unspoken joke that isn't funny.

Katrina rasps, "Jaxk is a funny fellow, no? Oh... a funny fellow..."

Their laughter and their smiles go bitter at the sound of his perfectly-uttered name.

There is a sigh.


	44. Can't Hold Many Things

Can't Hold Many Things

 _Pon, pon, pon_.

The unicorn raises his head from his novel. Hearing it again, repeated, stronger— _pon pon, pon!—_ he discards the hardback and moves _clip-clop clip-clop_ to the door. In a fresh red sweater today—and jeans. Sometimes he likes jeans. Usually only the white ones, though. Or the ripped and faded regular blue, like an old, wizened being. Which makes him feel wiser. Which makes him feel better about himself.

With a flourish, his hoof clasps the doorknob and inward swings his door. Lavender-brushed eyelids stay mostly shut over his small and charming orbs. He spends a few moments scrutinizing his squat visitor.

"Hm? Why, hello, Curlos. What may I ask _brings_ you to this neck of the woods?"

He had better not come alone. That would be very dangerous, especially at this time. Stupid, too.

Five in the morning. Usually Julian isn't up this early, but it happened when he woke up and he went with it. Besides, he's been trying to finish that book for weeks...

The sheep in question nods to himself—a little haplessly. "Ah, no, no, I did not come unarmed. Do not worry yourself there." He waves back yonder. "Deli couldn't sleep for once, so he took me over here. We were curious—saw the lights on your front porch. Now he's just popped himself toward Lucha's... he may be awake, he may not be. We don't know. Either is fine and dandy."

Curlos has dressed himself with a big, warm scarf and a floppy baseball cap. The look suits him better than most have. He looks better in boots than those weird high-heel-things of his. Yes. Boots suit him _much_ better. Loafers too, but he's not wearing loafers, he's wearing boots.

Thank heavens for boots.

The unicorn's in socks, no shoes. He didn't feel a need to—this is his snug old home after all.

They kind of stare at each other for a couple minutes. Then Julian goes "Oh" and scoots back, letting in the sheep and closing the door behind them.

Unlike most of Wherford's residents, his home consists of a hallway leading into his living room, and then a few rooms roaming outward, one attached to a door. His bedroom. His _private bedroom_. Curlos casts him a glance that suggests something Julian isn't sure he wants to voice aloud. Finally they sit at the couches by his great, sparkling windows—the stars still bright and shining—and they talk. Or so.

The sheep catches sight of the book on his table. "Ah, I didn't interrupt anything, did I?"

"Oh no. Don't kid yourself. It's a rather drab book to read and I'm only trying to finish it because I can't stand not finishing books. And," Julian smugly snorts, "or so as Teddy used to say, it's good to read a hard book every once in awhile."

They go back to staring at the cover.

Curlos mutters, "Halfway finished and it's hard to get through, eh?" He scratches at his nose.

"Yes. Quite." Julian blushes. "I'm sure we all have that problem with something."

"Yeah." The sheep nods to himself, sending his dark, delicious curls into a tizzy about him. His dreamy orbs perch to the window now.

The unicorn looks away. "Yes... quite." Cough. "Have you ever considered... _ending_ it? Ending _you_? To keep it from going on? Then... well." His orb little orbs flash greedily. "Then you never have to finish it."

"Why of course, I'm sure we all have." Curlos waves a hoof in the air. Nonchalant, over yonder. "And of course as you can tell, none of us have been able to. I think it's hope. Something. I dunno. Hope is cruel, makes you think maybe, if only you can get to the last page... there is a happy ending."

The unicorn drops his head, eyes on the carpet. "Does Lyla give you hope?"

The sheep follows suit. "Sort of. Depends on the person. Freya and Camofrog—for sure. But it's hard to tell, cuz at the same time Freya wants to protect her and sure, Camofrog wants to help, but we all know at the same time he's lusting for what he's missing. Hah. We're all missing something... well.

"Lucha... _was._ Missing something, that is. At one point. That just gives Camo even more hope. But at the same time he _is_ like Freya, he wants to protect her... it would be a shame if she broke too, eh? I don't think Fauna cares one way or the other, but she gets a little selfish, a little clingy at times about it. Kinda like a brat—pshhh. But that's not her problem..."

In the midst of the sheep's sigh, his friend intervenes: "I'd say. Man... we always knew there was something wrong with you, your town... and even as I've been inserted here while the others were taken I can't say that I understand completely."

"That's fine," murmurs Curlos, "that's fine. I've tried talking about it with Frita, but she gets so jealous. Ulh.

Pause. Deep breath. Resume.

"Some of them hate Lyla... man, it's so exhausting, all of them. Isabelle included, even if she is... well. And don't worry about not understanding. It's just nice for me to get to talk about it with someone—I see it all, and yet I'm powerless. Blaaaahhh."

There's something about Curlos, too, the unicorn notes. Something wrong with him as well. Is he lonely—maybe? A fraud? A fool? Perhaps, perhaps. A time and place for everything.

Their conversation rotates more to trivial matters and cookies—cookies? however did it get there?—as the sun finally peaks its dawn. As the rest of town wakens, Curlos is removed from his house arrest of sorts, and begins to take his leave.

"Ah! Curlos, wait, please give me one more penny of your time!"

The sheep turns. "Hmm? Yes, Julian?"

He splutters. "It was but a curious intake, but now I have to ask... what is with the great mass of curls on a sheep? It gives off the impression... but yet I... erhhh, I doubt to call you any form of 'fat'..."

"Ah, no, what a strange thing to wonder." He smiles sweetly. "No, I just have great curls. Perhaps a funny makeup in body and fur that does offer the look, but I assure you, I am not fat. Even so... to sheep, at least, this is _quite_ the _attractive_ look~"

Julian looks away again, murmurs, "I see." And it is easier to see—very simple to tell—after all that—that no, Curlos is not fat, but rather trim in body. Maybe a bit of a buildup, but nothing large indeed.

He nearly asks Curlos another question, but instead hurries to dismiss him from his personal space.

Only attractive to sheep? Are you sure?


	45. But Then They're Just Perfect

But Then They're Just Perfect

It's been hard getting herself to sleep these past few days. And no, it didn't start with that note—that second note—the one from the Post Office... but she feels like maybe that second note's gone and made it worse.

Head under pillow. Pillow a lump of soft, soundless warmth above. Above that, the atmosphere. The atmosphere is quiet. And in that quiet is a fear, a waiting, apprehension— _something_. Maybe not now, but coming. Coming. It's in her breath. In her thoughts. Crawling, perched among her ears. And somehow, that awful feeling and that awful feeling alone is the culprit to her rest.

Maybe, she thinks, thoughts irrational, head spinning, maybe somebody's here and they're trying to keep her up. So she can't sleep. So she's stuck here with these sharp shards of thoughts in her head. How did they get past her pillow? Her big, soft, safe pillow... well, it's not safe anymore.

Maybe... maybe she should stay somewhere else another night, maybe that will help. And maybe it's the irrational thoughts thinking, or maybe she's onto something, but there's a big heavy feeling in her gut that that is not the case. That something is coming, and that thing that is coming is the culprit of her rest, and there is nothing to catch such a thing, such a monster. Such a culprit.

Man.

Just thinking about it makes it hard to sleep. But if she doesn't think about it, then it's back, coming, coming, nonsense, whatever, _coming_. Freaking her out. Coming. Ulh. The word's getting stale and it's getting stale fast.

Escape. That's what she and Isabelle were talking about before Frita took the other bed in the town hall, after Digby left. Like a bad omen it settled along her head... escape—no escape. Frita couldn't leave. She hates everybody—but does she really? Talking in circles bigger than her own, I hate this, I want that, stupid, stupid... when will she waken again?

Oof. She was breathing. She _is_ breathing. It's just taking her some time to come back.

And of... of course! Wh-Why wouldn't she? Yeah...

Lyla releases the breath she was holding. Ulh. Go to sleep already. It's late. You're tired.

But she doesn't. Dang it.

Being tired sucks.

But it's not like there's any—natural—healthy—smart—way to stop it. Other than sleep. But she can't sleep. A-And she gets the feeling Freya or someone, someone for sure would kill her if they caught her trying to get... sh-she doesn't know, sleeping pills, something. You can never be too careful. Sleeping pills aren't careful enough.

Angrily, Lyla shoves her hands under her head in a knot. She gnaws into her lip. She kicks through her covers. She puffs out her cheeks.

The movement isn't doing her any favors of course. Movement tries to wake up her collapsing, sleepy body—which only shuts it down further. But she can't... her brain can't... Huffy, she squeaks: "Sh-Shut down, brain!"

You can imagine how well that worked.

Lyla pulls her hands out from under her head, instead plastering them in front of her face. There is a groan, a long one, a loud one, a sad one, muffled by the hands, still very big and obvious. Although nobody can hear her. Even the weirdos still awake at a time like this... oh no. Oh gosh.

It's like those nights when she was sick and Marsh was gone all over again. Marsh is still gone but... but she can accept that now. Then, it was bad. It was _bad_. She wouldn't leave her room for anything... not even when she really had to pee. It was _baaaad._

Like a brat for sure. There's a lot of messed up things about Wherford, and she's starting to see that now, bit by bit, but brattiness isn't really one of them...

For some reason Lyla's thoughts go back to the pink wolf, to Freya. She's not sure why. Maybe because Freya packs herself all so close together, her outside so showy and flashy and palpable: she's punk, but she's caring too. Protective. Strong. Forceful. At the same time Lyla knows that girl is in no way two dimensional... even as she comes off as it. Oh man. Is Freya hiding something too? Are they _all_ just landmines?

Lucha wasn't much of a landmine—oh, so now we're on Lucha? Naw, he wasn't much of one at all. There was the scare and the surprise and the disappointment, the anime, and perhaps because he's just that impulsive he tossed it all out rather quickly. Man. He _is_ really impulsive. It's bad. Not bad like having to pee and refusing to leave your own room but bad enough. Yet at the same time it's what showed Lyla the side he's trying with now... and she does really, really like Lucha... so maybe she should shut up.

Lucha's a nice guy...

UGH, LYLA, GO TO BED!

But she... she is in bed. And... she can't sleep.

It's kind of infuriating.

There is a sad look in her covered face.

Sometimes... sometimes—when she holds really still, and her breath is really quiet, and her body is so, so close to sleep... there is a voice. And she is not alone. The voice is a soft voice, hissing with each word like the stroke of a paintbrush. Gentle—powerful—beautiful and concise. Almost like it's perfect... but hey, that's not possible... naw, perfect isn't real.

The voice tells her many things, and it gets to tell her all it wants because she never remembers the voice come morning. The voice is nimble, and the voice is persuasion, and it knows the right words to say. It reminds her of Bruce, a little, when they first met. That weirdo. But it's not Bruce, no, it's something much deeper...

Lyla wants it to go away when she hears it. A cunning voice, a mean voice. It tells her what is coming, and it makes it harder and harder, sleep only a bleak hope, like sunrise for a blind man, the more it will speak. But she can't stop it, she can't move, she can't hardly breathe. And it won't go away...

It's a scary voice... and it tells her... what is coming... that dreaded word on wheels, coming, coming, coming, coming... coming...

Maybe Lyla just won't sleep. Maybe then it'll go away...


	46. For All the Little Things

For All the Little Things

Voices downstairs. Soft voices, gentle. Almost as if they were lowering themselves on purpose.

 _thhhm thhhm thhhm thhhm thhhm thhhm_

Footsteps, shushed like angels, up the stairs.

Murmur, murmur. "...reful... st...ll tire..."

Ahh, the sheep blinks from her bed. But Lyla's naturally quiet. She was never good at raising her voice, and if she ever did it naturally lowered again anyways. She's like one of those obnoxious people who can't stop yelling their words, only it's the opposite. Soothing sometimes. Irritating, though, depending on the situation. Lots of flaws and talents are like that... maybe even all of them.

Oh, why can't _she_ be like that—!

but... oh, but, goes the quiet voice in her head... the one that she couldn't hear until she conked herself good, and they decided it wasn't safe to try and "escape" Wherford, oh, maybe that's not true... you can't distance yourself—you're just as imperfect if not even a little less of trash than that stupid Lyla... admittedly, Lyla _is_ stupid.

She forgets what she's doing in the middle of it. Asks—okay—the actual _worst_ questions. Slow-thinker—poor decision-maker... and so quiet.

But it's because she forgets, because she thinks so slowly, because of all these things—oh, for the love of stupidity—that she'll ask Frita all the same things.

"Hey? Are you doing better?

"Your eyes are pretty today. You know that?

"Oh, did I already say that? Sorry. Did you know your eyes are pretty today, too?"

Dumb little things like that.

Then she goes and _forgets_ what she's asked and asks it again, and again, and again, what, like five minutes later! _Idiot_.

And she is. She's told them herself: the only reason she didn't flunk out of high school was because there weren't enough kids to support the system as it was. Small town Lyla on her small town train, four years away from the life she once knew... then like the idiot she is she goes and plants her roots down in _Wherford_ of all places, plops herself down to stay in _Wherford_ of all places.

But maybe it's the stupidity that keeps her from questioning all those things. Maybe it's that stupidity holding her stupid soul together, keeping her tied together, held in place together... kept from falling apart.

At least. Not yet.

Lyla shares some murmurs with the golden dog beside her, aquamarine eyes drawn to the ground. She's shy, and she has been for some couple days now, unable to look at the dog or the sheep for that matter in the face. She's relieved though—you can tell it in the slack of her face, the hesitant shifting of the shoulders. She's relieved though.

Hands clasped together modestly in front of her dress—another of the new ones, big and soft and simple—perhaps one of Isabelle's herself now that she thinks about it, she turns her head toward the dog again. "Um." Just softly. "Thank you for... for helping me out there. I got really confused... really nervous..."

"Heh..." Isabelle's big sky-blue orbs can't land anywhere either. "N-No, you're fine... Lyla."

Shy little friends. Isabelle was blaming herself for awhile. She's like Lucha with that problem—too impulsive and a little too hyperactive to keep up with things all that well. But she's not as impulsive as the bird—which is a good thing. If they had another animal who'd toss out half of all her possessions like he did without another thought... well.

Especially Isabelle. She was safe from the start. She and Digby, and Nook, and the Abel sisters... and others, too.

They're not sure about Lyla... they don't think safe, they just think lucky. So far.

She's starting to crumble. They don't think the girl knows it herself, but they all can see: sunken eyes, shady cheeks, sallow lips, scruffy hair. Shaking. Slightly. Like any moment will be her last before she finally snaps.

It will be a beautiful shattering... that much is obvious.

Frita—oh—why couldn't _hers_ be beautiful! Why couldn't—why shouldn't—ohhhh _hhhhh_!

"Hey. Um! Hey..." Oh, gosh, what does that girl want this time. "Your, um... your eyes are looking brighter today. And they're open now. So that—that's good. That's real good. So I... I trust you're feeling better on the inside, too, right? Cuz I mean... why wouldn't you?"

Those lips snap closed and she doesn't tell the pale girl off. Doesn't yell at her hey! it's already awful here, you know that! Doesn't yell shut up! Or ugh! it's not fair! Or ugh! you're not fair!

Maybe it's just tiring to keep at it with a girl who can't even register the envy in her voice.

Yeah, that might be it.

Those were the eyes that looked into those of a decade-old anime hermit and somehow found some _thing_ in him to make him snap.

And Julian hasn't... well.

He's still... he's still... it's not like he's all that angry about anything... not right now, no... not right now...

Frita! Look at you, pitying them—when they're so much _better and bolder and brighter than—_

That stupid, stupid girl, the one who won't _shut up_ about her _stupid eyes_ , those words and those thoughts and that smile come back to her. She breathes heavily. For a moment it's hard to hold onto anything.

As if embarrassed, the dog and the girl take a step back. _tm—tm._ Hushed, their voices morph together again.

Just Lyla and Isabelle, just she and she again.

"Um... can I ask you what's been going on now? It's so weird... not living in here anymore... ahh—haha... once there's free space again, I should really come over more, eh?"

"A-Aauauh... th-th-that would be... very nice... Ly-yla... tha-thank you. You know—you know! I still have... a lot of work... on my project. Y-You remember my-my project... a-a-aaaaactually wait y-you don't d-d-dooo you... a-aahhahaha..."

"Nah, I have it in here somewhere. You go on."

"E-Ehhh... Th-Thank you... it... means a lot knowing you're trying to help me..."

Pshhh. The sheep snorts. Maybe Lyla's only doing this helping because she can't remember how stupid it is in the first place. Yeah, maybe. And maybe that's all it is. A stupid girl taking that stupid boy's advice, taking a train to a town without any hope left in its taken-down tree after all its taken-down time. Taking away all of its triumphs... leaving only tumult and tragedy behind—or maybe that's it, they're all taken for a travesty, laughingstock, trouble. Stupid.

Just one stupid girl, stupid enough to listen to that stupid, stupid boy on the train. The stupid train.

And yet...

Her voice is quiet, and kind of dull, and kind of soft... so it's hard to hear the feeling in it. And yet...

"Of course. Eheh, I may as well, right? And you're working hard. At least... I think you're working hard. Aren'cha? Heh, I'm happy we met, you know... I just. Well. You got it on-spot. Your thinking... heh, right on the nose, right! Super Issy! Suuuuper Issy! Hahahaha..."

"A-AaAuuuuuUHHhhhhhh... Tha-Tha-Thaaaaaank yooouuhhh... whhhhhhuhhhhh..."

"Eheheheheh..."

Languidly, the sheep rubs at her nose, a little cross-eyed.

Something so simple, something so substantial...

What makes it work _so_ well? Ulh... She doesn't know...

She just keeps scratching at that nose in faint wondering.


	47. Oh You Know

Oh You Know

From the nudging of a certain fluffy dog and the talking of the voice in her conscience—or maybe the memories of that panther—or perhaps the paper in her pocket—Lyla deliberates the desire for a return to that Post Office.

The more she thinks about that tiny square... oh, square! Oh man. It's like... a box. A box...

Pshhh... and what do you do with a box? You put stuff in it! Like storage! Never to escape your forgetful or tired or plain old lazy mind again!

Man, there were so many weird people when she went last time...

Having thought about it, she ultimately forced Jay to come with her. He's a bit of a pushover, so he was the easiest. She did originally consider Fauna—the sweetie—but the thought of that sweet, poor thing... if Lyla forgot her... all alone...  
defenseless...

Buh! Something like that. Either way Jay was easier. He didn't argue. He whined for a good two seconds and then gave up. It was great. So she sort of drops the bluebird off in the lobby of this Post Office area and swings around the place herself. It's not like he'd leave without her—the guy looks like one of those twitchy people, like the ones who wet the bed in the middle of the night.

Hey, maybe! Probably not, but you never know!

The Post Office is woody: a nice woody, a safe-feeling one that makes you think of snug fireplaces in the winter, lit with a nice toasty flame. And there is one—in the back corner. Two sets of stairs flank the middle area, which extends a little back but otherwise just supports some booths. Probably where all the mail gets dropped.

Other than that, the big hallway of a room extends off into the left and right sides, into pictures and framed thingies on the walls, some couches and a well-made and well-worn coffee maker in the corners—the coffee maker in the right side specifically.

It's on the left, on the opposite wall, that lies a corkboard. It's just got some general things pinned up, a grocery list, some nice notes, a photo of some pelicans—two white, one pink—heeey, there's only the white and the pink one here at the booths what the heeeck—and then some numbers. Math? Salary? That whole economics thing Freya was talking about? Uhhhhh? Lyla doesn't know numbers?

Eventually her parents had to do her math homework for her. It was kind of bad. Started in seventh grade. See, one day she forgot her pencil to school and she forgot to ask people for extras, so she hardly did anything that day, and then after that day she'd just keep slipping farther and farther behind.

That was all it took. One measly pencil.

Funny how big, gaping changes can start from something so small.

She'd realized then that that pencil was like her lifeline—the graphite in her hand kept her going, because even if she forgot and misplaced a few words here and there, even with everyday distractions, her lifeline kept pumping in her hands and something got on her paper. So by the evening she could solve her homework, like a puzzle. A big puzzle. First the paper, then her homework.

Back then she liked school... ah, memories...

Lyla realizes at this point she's been staring creepily at the numbers on the corkboard for a good five minutes there and everyone must think she's a weirdo. Whistling, pushing at her hair, she takes a step back, scoots off toward some other things. Her bare feet—shoes have become an unfortunate afterthought by now—go sliding off with her. Without splinters... hoo.

Slowly, easing herself in, she plops upon the soft and cushy couch and once she decides she's not getting out immediately wishes she sat over where the coffee was. Dang it. She doesn't even like coffee—but—but it'd be nice to hold a warm little paper cup... full of bitter coffee—but the cup... the warm little paper cup... _darn_.

While she's contemplating this serious problem of hers, as well as the fate of the world on a side-note—oh cruel coffee! why art thou so _stupid_ and _evil_ and _stuff_!—faintly one can see the white-feathered creature who sits himself beside her. He hears her muttering, decides against paying much attention to it, and sits with his paper cup of coffee, and sips. Once. Twice. Mutters about the burn, too hot this time, Phyllis probably did it on purpose, dang it, sips again.

The brunette goes silent. The bird stares at her, having grown used to her background-noise murmur. As he lulls back into his own world—she sits up and with still half-dull eyes cries out:

"THAT'S IT!"

"Gyaaah—!"

"IT'S LIKE DEPRESSION!"

"Oh, golly! Depression!"

"MY PENCIL IS LIKE DEPRESSION!"

"Oh, golly, oh, boy!" By this point he's probably decided this girl has a screw loose or something when those aquamarine eyes turn over and note him. Then she recalls—once again—that she is in a public place, and public places aren't built for spoken reminisces on your own. Well, probably not anyways. Aw poor pelican. He's spooked.

Shaking her head, she squeaks, now much quieter: "Oh, sorry! Hi!" Awkward waving. "I was just thinking about the seventh grade—see, I had this pencil, and one day I forgot it, and I _also_ forgot to ask anyone if they had spares. So for the entire day I was stuck without a pencil!" Yes, like this is a life-changing moment. "And it was _baaaad_. See, I'm a slow learner, and thinker, and I'm also really stupid—yeah, I know—so this actually affected me a lot, and then it ruined my system and I started forgetting pencils more, and then kept me puttering down and down until I nearly flunked out of high school. Anyways! Little things are such avalanches, riiiight! Like—like!

She goes on, further excited and further gesticulating those pale little hands of hers. Her curls are everywhere, like one big octopus of emotion. "Like _depression_! You can't just stay in the same place with the same things or nothing'll change, so the smallest things can make the biggest impacts and even—like—people _save_ people, you know that!" Oh he knows. This girl is insane but oh he knows. That if nothing else, oh he knows. "So I just... I just..." And puttering again. "Oh, I was just thinking of it...

"So! What's your name!" Even with her punctuality, she's so quiet now. It's kinda nice. If he really wanted to, he could shut her off and shift her into background noise... but he probably shouldn't do that.

"Pete." A throaty drawl, low and a little southern and a little thoughtful. "What's yours?"

"Lyla. I'm new here." Because that solves everything.

"Ah." No wonder she didn't know him—unless Wherford tricked someone into moving. Then it makes sense. Like he's going _there._ They can dang pick up there letters _here, thanks_. "You here for a letter?"

She blinks. Long and slow. Makes her eyes flash like teal diamonds. "Uhh..?" That's long and slow too. It's obvious things take her a few moments to start rolling. "Oh, uh! Right! This is a post office, I forgot!" Wait. "Maybe I should do that..." She forgot. Well okay then.

If nothing else, the pelican feels he'll remember that slow and nearly-dull murmur, the near-background-noise that took a chunk of his life and laid it flat in front of him. Strange girl, strange words. So he ultimately feels this need and then leaves her with a letter, tells her she should do something nice with it, since she hasn't sent one before. Then he salutes the girl good-day and pulls himself up from the reluctant, sagging, whining chair, and he decides he'll try again with his Phyllis. Maybe this time. Maybe _this_ time...

Lyla stares at it for a while. There's some pencils in a mug on a nearby table, so she helps herself to one. It's got a sucky eraser. She better not make too many mistakes—oh heck she probably will.

Eventually she goes with something she thinks should work fine. It's a simple letter, because a lot of small things make avalanches, and also because she's kinda doubting herself, but she wants to try it anyways.

She remembers nothing but what stood out to her: gone, not dead. Tanuki, the porcupines. Gone, not dead. Maybe it's just a ton of useless hope.

Well no matter.

She writes, hand shaking:  
 **Dear Twigy, I really love you're awsom sole and I trust you, you're boyfriend, and evryone else is ok. Cuz your all awesum. With lo-more love, lylXa.**

Okay perfect.

As she walks toward the big wooden booth and places down the letter, and salutes to the sweet white pelican there kinda like Isabelle, she catches a few random snippets of conversation.

"you hear? Apparently Resetti and Don—they were"

"it's getting worse, they're off the radar, I don't even know if"

"does _he_ even know? Does he even"

"upid moles playing tricks on"

"hate them"

Ah. Well. _Fun_. She takes her time leaving, wincing a little one the way out. The villagers swarming casually, like this was some meeting, and she got the feeling they hadn't been around for awhile... some with tanned fur and skin, some wet from water... a red otter holding scallops, a fox with a green tent strapped and folded on his back, a small police dog, some... chameleon guy...

There's something weird about them... something weird indeed...

Huh. She stops there for a moment. Wonders... why does she only ever see people like herself here—like... it's just _them_ and _Wherford_. Huh...

Rubs at her eyes a little. Calls out for Jay, who's sort of staring at the ground just over yonder with a little sad look in those birdy eyes of his. She's not sure what he did. There was a letter—he brought a few. Wrote on one, at some time.

Didn't... send it. Weirdo...

Finally they exit, back to the train station, back to gloomy and cloudy old Wherford, the bird humming under his bill almost imperceptibly, that written letter clenched tight in his hands...

There is soft music, still playing in the crooked open half-shoe-store... and there is a—a skunk, a sweet little skunk, dancing sadly by himself...

And she wonders, a little disgusted, sitting quietly in the train, why everything here is so... oh.

She realizes then that she forgot to put the pencil back into the mug on the table. It's still in her hands.

And shaking her head... she nearly laughs... and then Jay gives her this look and she does... and he stares... quietly... smiling, just a little... at the strangeness of this girl...


	48. Only What Matters

Only What Matters

"YOU KNOW WHAT? FHH—FINE! BE THAT WAY! JUST GO AHEAD AND BE THAT WAY, WHY DON'T YOU!"

"UUGH! NIBBLES! WHY WON'T YOU LISTEN—JUST LISTEN ALREADY!"

"NO! _YOU_ LISTEN! YOU LISTEN TO _ME_! YOU'RE SO MEAN AND YOU NEVER CONSIDER WHAT _I_ THINK OR HOW _I_ FEEL AND—UGH!"

"REALLY THEN? FINE, WHATEVER, I DON'T CARE. JUST... JUST GO ALREADY!"

"I THINK I _WILL_."

 _BURRHhhh_

After kicking the door in, the turquoise squirrel wipes her sweaty palms on her shorts. They've got nail imprints on them... she was clenching her fists kind of hard. But really it's her voice that hurts. A little swollen, sore, squeaky. Ow... nn-nnnnf.

Angrily she wipes at her streaky cheeks, and upset and shaking she mutters something dark and unintelligible. At herself? At her boyfriend? At his house? At the world? Maybe everything: all of them and more. Hhhh. Wiping her palms on her yellow plaid shorts, flip-flops kicking against her heels, she starts off from that stupid house with the stupid frog inside of it.

She'll be _fiiine_. She'll stay in the area. The others are out. Well, some of them. Lucha's gone _outside_ for once. Jay doing his stupid _jog thing_ , you know, the one where he _constantly trips_. Fauna's like _gardening_ , what a dweeb. Ulh! Ulh.

Alongside her shorts, she's in this cute tank blouse she found a couple months ago, one with buttons down the middle, and it's tied at the bottom, and it shows off her belly button.

Talk about a bad choice in clothing. When did it get so windy? She'd swear it wasn't anywhere near this bad when she first went to Camofrog's house.

There are little shudders arcing down her arms. They grow more and more noticeable the further she walks away from her boyfriend. The one probably angry and sitting on his bed, eyes dark and murky, thinking about sad things and how tired he is. He gets tired so easily. Ugh, stupid Camofrog. It's always been like this. Stupid. She rubs her hands together, shivering some.

Maybe she should go home too.

But she's really not in the mood for the bright walls, the peppy dolls, the cute clothes, the color... Wherford mist is c-comforting.

Ma-Maybe she'll just sleep on the _grass_ tonight... pahaha—not like anyone'll _stop her_ , right? Hahaha... psh...

Her shaking is furious, like wrath has gripped her tiny body and tossed her to the ends of the earth and back around again. Her face has reddened, tiny squirrel nose crinkled up. Oh it was a horrible idea not to bring a jacket.

And on and on, further she goes from that stupid frog's house.

Urrrhh! Her fur spikes up about the shoulders. Why's it always so _cold_ here! Wh-What the heck! Doesn't the weather have any sense of direction! Any set of _anchor_ , you know, _keeping it together_! She rubs at her cheeks, at her snotty nose, at everything falling apart up there: oh, come on! St-Stupid _atmosphere_! Everything needs an anchor, else it'll _fall apart_! O-Okay! So figure that out already! D-Do something about it!

She steps behind Jay's house as she scoots close to it. The bluebird himself has gone off somewhere nearby, his voice and Lucha's little chirps above the wind. His red friend asks about if the bird has any of his skinny jeans, because his are starting to go a little more missing after every wash and it's freaking him out a little—but no, Jay doesn't have his skinny jeans, why would Jay ever have something like that?

They're not complaining about the cold.

Idiots.

Over by her house, Fauna watering her plants—she halts suddenly, those warm caramel eyes transfixed. With a careful hoof, she reaches out into her pansies and pulls out none other than a—a cicada. From the ground. Little wings flapping but not strong enough. The excitement fills her face as she darts back into her house for one of those plastic containers to keep the poor prisoner in.

Nibbles's fur spikes up all about her body. The winds howling in her mind and the little anchor that was once present a long, long time ago too far gone to be of any use any longer. The thought of it only reminds her of the past, causes a laugh to bubble into her throat.

Another step from Camofrog and she crashes.

Soil splutters into ruts all about her, spraying into her face, along her arms, down her legs. Small cuts from her fall sting and mingle with the crusty, loamy brown, encasing her wounds like band-aids and stinging like flame. The girl pulls into herself as much as she can manage with the sobs wracking her body.

Fear. Fear and grief.

"Whyyyhhh..!" speaking mostly to herself, mostly not even sure of what she's even saying, even doing. "Whh-Whhyyh did you let me g-goo! S-Stop it, stop it..!" Her face smushed with the dirt into a moue, her pule rattling across her indented body.

"CAAaaaammmoOOoooofrroooooohHHhhHHhgg..."

There is silence in the air. A dead wind. A solemn flowing of the mist... a great silence hanging in the air like a corpse.

Eventually he does come. It's scrunched up with his skin, like he knew this was going to happen. There is a sense of distance in his eyes, suggesting that as close as he is to her, he's rather far, far away.

And there is a great sorrow in this face. With the distance. With disappointment and misunderstanding and all kinds of big, alluding things: there is a great sorrow in this face.

And he lifts the body he cannot see, and he returns home with it.

There is a great sorrow in his movements. And off his wake the others stay respectfully silent.


	49. Never Just Flatters

Never Just Flatters

Oh... now it must be Julian's turn to visit the sheep, right? At least, he hasn't been confronted by him personally... though, well, maybe it was only the unicorn's side but he rather enjoyed the company of that Curlos. A strange one, sure, but everyone in Wherford is rather strange.

He checks his pocket mirror before knocking on the door. Whips out the shining little lens, smooths some of his hair, flutters his eyes some—yes, his eyeshadow is alright. The green doesn't match as well as he'd like with his yellowish tank top, but he tried. Ah—darn, his lips smeared a bit... one should never go out in the public with a bit of smeared lip balm. He only uses the clear stuff, but it does have a bit of healthy sparkle in it... furiously he fiddles with this until finally satisfied with himself and knocks – _pon pon—_ on the door.

Curlos takes his sweet time coming in. Oh bother. Julian supposes he had, too, just finishing up his book—but whatever. Ah, by the bye, he finished it finally. Dratted thing. Its ending isn't rotten, but you could sort of tell it was coming from the beginning, which soured, in aspect, the story as a whole, this plot like a soured overhang...

Ah! He answered. Big bulky brown door pulled aside to reveal the sheep, his bright yellow face dusted—somewhat—in flour. Ah no wonder. Wow, Julian, you could be better at timing. Even so, Curlos nods and accepts the unicorn—sending his little chef hat askew.

The unicorn crushes his strange desire to shift it himself back into place.

Last he checked, he wasn't OCD. Er... didn't have OCD. However it was. Wh-Whatever. Now he's all nervous...

Curlos fixes his hat, and his rumpled apron while he's at it, as he directs the unicorn to a couch shoved in one corner, alongside a bed and a tiny cardboard box of a television.

Accompanying this compromised living area is a screen with a—bathtub?—shoved aside in such a way that was the screen being used it would be rather easy to cover. Oh so that's why his house is so popular. He has the plumbing.

It must be hard with such small housing... to supply little things like these... Julian immediately blushes, thinking of his own well-stocked facilities.

A restroom in the back of the town hall, their bathing when needed here—and perhaps a couple of other houses that can fit it—the laundry done in that post office square, their pocket changes brought together by pure economy alone and only touched when needed...

Wherford must be a harsh town to live in at times. Simple in some ways; very harsh in others. Oof. Suddenly Julian's very thankful for his mansion of a house in comparison to these "huts."

Quietly he watches the sheep, with his little sink and stove and fridge and few other modern cooking necessities, rolling out his cookies. At least they're probably cookies. An oven attached to the bottom of the stove beeps loudly, perhaps that the preheat is finished, and without further ado Curlos sends his masterpiece inside.

After patting himself down he finds room to sit beside the unicorn. There are apologies. They are accepted.

"So, uh, why are you here? My house of all places?" He messes a little with his brown curls.

Which brings to Julian's mind his hair, and he frets silently and full of angst about it for a few seconds, ultimately deciding he'd rather not appear vain in front of Curlos. So he leaves it. Hardly managing. "Ah, well it's quite rather simple"—pulling a hoof down from it—"I just... I mean, you stopped by, and"—no Julian no don't go grabbing for your mirror stop it—"I rather enjoyed your company, and"—put your hoof down, pleb!—"so I deliberated upon visiting you again."

"Oh." That leaves the sheep staring off into space. "Oh that makes sense I guess. Although why me of all people... well. Do as you see fit, I guess." He itches slightly at his nose.

Silence. Then, "Curlos, may I ask why you're squinting?"

He splutters. "I—well... I just... I'm kinda nearsighted... but over on the oven there's a clock... it's not too small..." No, it's not too small at all. "And I was trying to read from here when the cookies would be done... but I can't see it very well. As. You know. I'm kinda nearsighted."

Aw, was he shy about saying that?

"That's fine. Besides, designer glasses add a certain style to any outfit..." Oh wait. "Mmmmh, they'll be done in around an hour."

Curlos mutters a thank you, looking away again.

He needs glasses... Curlos needs glasses... and he doesn't have any—but Curlos needs glasses...

Is he... neglectful of something? Or can he simply not see..?  
Oh, what is it that revolves around _his_ problem...

"I just..." Julian starts—the sheep just started talking all on his own. "I just, you know. I like making cookies. I wanted to make some for everyone. I like to do this once a week... or once every other week... but... there's always someone missing. Someone I always miss. Hah. I try every time and there's always someone who slips from my mind, who doesn't get a cookie. And I mean, it is just a cookie, so what's the big deal?

His head lowers a little more Aw! Curlos! "I just... I don't know. Heh—really... I don't. They're just cookies but... they're more than cookies..! Right? They're more than cookies. And I can't even do that. Ulh. And even if I do remember who it is I forgot, I end up giving extras to the people who want more first. Deli. I always give, like, five to Deli. At least. If I forgot Deli, then maybe I'd finally have some left over. But I don't. I can't forget the five cookies. Haha... it's kind of sad, isn't it?"

They're more than cookies. They're... more. More than glasses too?

Suddenly the unicorn shudders, just a little bit.

"Iiiif you'd like," murmurs the unicorn, just quietly, "I can try to help you deliver the cookies. Maybe then, at the least, you'll get closer than you usually do. At least... I don't think flaws go away on their own but... maybe I can help."

A flash of hopeless gratitude lives within the eyes of that sheep. Julian grins; it's kind of a ridiculous grin.

The rest of the around-an-hour passes in trivial conversation. Little things. But it's still rather enjoyable to talk about, at least to the unicorn it is.

He assists that poor, brown-furred worrywart in the handing out of his cookies. Five for Deli, one for Isabelle, two for Camofrog—one for Nibbles, three for Frita, one for Lyla, two for Freya—one for Fauna, three for Lucha, who apparently didn't have lunch, and only a half for Jay, so Lucha takes that too, and a couple left for Curlos.

It's not until after the unicorn left and he thanked him profusely that he forgot the most important one, the unicorn himself.

Bhhhh... his head lowers... e-even so... even so...


	50. As Hearts are Known to Lie

As Hearts are Known to Lie.

She sits quietly next to the bird.

He'd just been out and about, and eventually, because why not, went to the bridge in the middle of town and sat on its little stone rail. Really a perfect place to sit: low enough to be easy to access, but high and sturdy and snug enough to keep from falling. At least not easily. Unless, like, someone pushes him. But Lyla won't push him.

The girl and the bird, just sitting together. Kicking their feet over the sparkly droplets, the ones that sometimes but don't always hit their bare skin. His anklets shift with each kick, but because of the anomaly called bird feet—and bird claws—all that—they don't come off. Unless he untied them, but no.

He looks over to the girl, to her sunken cheeks and sullen beam, and realizes he's found the culprit for his skinny jeans. And he wonders hey, why did it take so long? But it makes sense. She's always in them these days... or... well. Or so it seems.

And one of his old jackets too. _Okay_. Freya has a couple leather jackets and one of them had some falcon skull on it, right? Well, all the other jackets and such were his first. H-He did too have a lot of long-sleeves without freaking anime trash on them... but then Freya started wearing them, and now Lyla's wearing one too—not to mention his skinny jeans—and he has, like, no clothes.

Rewearing is okay for a few days and he supposes he should take clothes from other people too but birds have such particular dimensions and Jay's clothes consist of his wetsuit and that's all... and he gets uncomfortable, wearing clothes that aren't his...

Admittedly Lyla pulls off his clothes well. Dang it. Now he'll never ask her for his skinny jeans back. _Dang it_. He nearly does out of impulse but then he doesn't, because he's trying to get better at that.

Well, he still has three more pairs. He can... maybe last... a couple days in each.. and that's almost a week... o-ooof, he might have to beg Freya to let him buy some new pairs...

He doesn't have the motivation to ask Lyla for them back... at least he's got some jackets... miraculously... and he's got some of Freya's too... they kinda have each other's—and maybe if he keeps begging Jay... whhhh, why is he doing this all around the fact that his clothes are in Lyla's drawers...

 _Pbbsh_

Her head on his shoulder. Oh gosh is she falling asleep. H-He's had Deli's head on his shoulder too, because Deli—but—but this—Lyla— _girl—_ Lyla—who is a _girl too—_ ahhhhhhh... whimpering to himself, he waits as her lips slowly purse. Trying to gather her words, he thinks... maybe...

As she's just there, just resting there, he realizes just how worn the girl is. Hair frizzled over and out of her bands, fingers caked in grit and mud, great drooping black bags beneath her eyes, like bruises. And shaky, to the touch.

His gaze lowers.

Poor girl... what's she been doing? Where's Lyla been, this past week? These past weeks? She missed a Keke night... a couple days ago. With Jay—that's right. They went to the square—the box—whatever it was that wolf called it. Jay was writing something... Lyla had this dumbfounded look and a pencil in her hand. Oh, Lyla, what have you done?

That worries him... a little. For sure, his great impulsiveness played a part in cracking the hermit's shell. Well, duh. They're impulses for a reason, they're everywhere. It was gonna happen sooner or later... sorta. But the way she'd looked at him that first day she met him, her eyes so hopeful and so disappointed at the same time... it was strange. It was a strange thing. And kind of a nice thing, too, for a random stranger to worry about him like that.

"I... um... sorry." She shifts in place. Tries to lift her head. It goes back down on his shoulder. "I'm... tired. Really tired. Y'see... um..." Her cheeks redden, she's got her eyes screwed up tight to suggest she doesn't want him to see her like this. "I... I think I haven't been sleeping well.

Such a soft voice... and such a sad tone. "I'm not... sure. I can't really remember the night—like I had a dream or something... but I... um..! I don't think I'm sleeping well." The blush thickens. "Please... please don't tell anyone. Please don't tell anyone I don't think I'm sleeping well... that I can't even remember if I am... b-because I think there's something wrong.

"With Wherford... that is. And maybe there was something wrong with you, too, I-I dunno... but it's... I think it's... safe here."

He feels like he should say something; he doesn't know what to say. For the life of him he is a derp and he is a horrible failure. He almost blurts something random, but that would ruin everything, maybe make her cry—he doesn't know—girls cry a lot... then again his sister never cried, he cried more than her. Especially after their dad... he and his mom cried together a lot. Heh...

Lyla called him safe. After the hermit, after the light-blinded weirdo stumbling about... now that he's adjusting... wow. He never thought someone was gonna call him safe. Deli wouldn't even dare use the word "innocent" on him, so safe was kind of out of the question.

Safe... what does that mean, really? What is it she sees in this bird? Wearing his skinny jeans around... and one of his jackets too. Sure, not every day, as there are moments without, but... more likely than not... heh... that's so weird.

Maybe she can sense his confusion or something, or maybe just because, she goes on. "I... like... yeah. My first reason in following you around a lot and making you come everywhere was... well, you're a bird. I always loved birds... I just always have. And caged birds make me sad. But I mean... well. Of course, but... you're way more than a bird, you're Lucha, and Lucha's... pretty cool. Hahaha... and ridiculous... but pretty cool...

"Right? I dunno, I am pretty dumb, but... at least, that's what I think. Heheh..."

Because Lucha's really impulsive, he mumbles, "Wait so... so you're not sleeping well."

"Yeah." She answers casually.

"So then... wait, nevermind, you said you don't remember anything. Never mind. Sorry. Oh—that was random and rude, sorry..." His head lowers.

There is soft laughter. He can feel her breath on his face—and spluttering, again raises that blushing red head of his. "Pshh, naw... it's fine. I get that you have flaws... 'n stuff... I mean, I nearly flunked out of high school. My english teachers wanted to burn me—for both my grammar and my writing in general. I was banned from our dinky little science lab after accidentally setting fire to myself. And well. I dunno. I can't remember history... heck, I can't remember yesterday all that well."

"So then the, uh, history of Animals' Crossing is out of the story."

"Of what?"

"Thought so." He splutters. "Psh..."

They're silent again, after the laughter. It somehow feels quieter, afterwards. "Um, no, wait... that's a lie. I remember something..."

"Of Animals' Crossing?" Oh, no, he doesn't remember it that well either, just knows he studied enough to pass the test.

Lyla bats a hand in the air. Her head raises for a good few moments before falling again. "No, no... about my problem. Heh. It just... I just... a voice. There was a voice. I can't hardly remember it, but there was a voice... a-and Lucha? It was a bad voice... a really bad voice... it told me bad things, and to do bad things. I can't remember what but... it was a bad voice.

She shifts closer to him, sending a squeak through Lucha's mouth—oh gosh, her skin is cold. Like... cold. "I ah... it was... it was scary, but... but... once I was really, really close to falling asleep... I-I... it would... Lu-Lucha... it wouldn't... g-g-go awaayhh..." There is a very, very soft sound, like a whisper, then a whimper, then a shudder, and a pule.

Oh no she's crying.

He never knows what to do when someone's crying and that includes his best friend Deli when he broke his arm in the second grade.

Lucha's heart powers through his chest, his face red and his body shivering a little. He doesn't... he never knows... h-he doesn't know how to comfort s-someone... he's been comforted before, with that look of hope and disappointment combined—with his sister when his father... and then he was this anime hermit and... h-h-he doesn't know how to c-comfort someone..! Oh no... this poor girl... this poor thing... sweet Lyla... oh poor Lyla... u-ummm... whyy hiiimmm...

Because her head's already on his shoulder, and he doesn't even know what to do with the rest of her shaking body smushed against him, he whispers, "Ahh... I... uh.. umm... I'm... well..." Deep breath, come on, something, anything. "I'm sorry... I-I-I'm sorry, Lyla." _Hooooooookay_. Much better than nothing.

Out of angst and fear for himself and the trembling in his heart and the cold, cold skin of the poor, poor girl, he sheds a few tears too.

So they cry together upon the bridge, sitting with the droplets and the great rumbling of the river beneath them... and they stay like that until it's dark out, and he takes her home to his house, because maybe the scary voice doesn't like it there.

And they stay up all night. Talking, just quietly.

As Lyla calms herself down, and she manages to move her head without falling, and her skin is warmer to the touch, she asks him, "Do you think something is gonna happen here?"

And he goes, "Huh? What do you mean?" because maybe he's smarter than Lyla but he's still pretty stupid.

"Oh, well... I was just thinking," she murmurs, softly, "just thinking about things. You, how Julian's... I dunno, he's not mad or anything about what's going on I guess—about Frita too... just thinking." And a shrug. To top it all off.

"Nono... um!" He splutters. "I get what you're thinking, what you're trying to um... to say. A-And I like it. I get what you mean..." And then he shrugs. "Maybe so. I was... well, a-a hermit, so I don't know that well... but I think there might be something going on, maybe something big."

He recalls what Lyla told him about being himself, and being really cool. Just out of nowhere.

He nearly tells it back to her, because she is really cool—but by then the moment's passed, her head turned... a little nervous, a little scared of hearing the voice. So... he'd better stay around a-a-and help if he can, t-t-too..! Because Lyla helped him a lot... and somehow... she trusts him. So now he wants to help her, to trust her, too. Cuz she really deserves it by now. Really... deserves it.

So he does. Or. Well. He tries to. It's not easy, and he's a big derp, but... but he tries. And he'll try not to stop trying.

And they'll see.

 **Yeah, that was a pretty short arc... but there were some things going on that I wanted to pick up on.  
**

 **So by now we know the issues of most if not all the villagers, or at least have an idea of where this is all going. Not to mention the story is halfway done here on out! Hoof...**

 **Lyla, playing the fool, has managed to change Lucha's, in a sense Julian's, and now Frita's heart as well. But what's the purpose in this? What's the purpose in Wherford?**

 **Why is Lyla so scared? Heh. And the thing Jay was writing is gonna come back in arc 6! As will other things~ you'll seeeee~!**


	51. Love is Hiding Inside

Love is Hiding Inside

There are times in the world when things are made without the logic or sense people search for.

That is because there is a different kind of sense, in some worlds. A sense that they have never heard of before.

Therefore their own strings of "logic" are denial and their own strings of "thoughts" are... lacking, to say the least.

But that is no matter. It is to be expected sometimes.

And there is the girl. The girl slowly brings herself together and steps out of her bed, her bed in the middle of her house. Her upstairs has stayed untouched and collecting dust, perhaps a symbol of her brain in the upstairs of her head. She rubs at her tired face that has yet to gather sleep, and she pulls her sheets in a suitably muffled mess, and she changes into a predictable pair of skinny jeans alongside a flowery tank top, and she steps out into the world.

Only she is not confronted by mist, or by rain, or by anything she has grown to expect at all.

"Uhh! Whaaaaaaaaaahaaaahhy! Whhhh-Wherford, ssssstop being weeeiiiiird!" A pale finger uncurls from its frightened fist and points out some nearby peach tree, chilling by the walls of her house. "Whaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyy! Wweehaaaaaaaaaahhh!"

The peach tree's branches contain little flower buds. Pink. Pink like a lot of things, like the color her skin would be if it wasn't in such a shoddy shape.

Angry, she turns back into her house and slams the door. Then once she's calmed down a little she slaps herself across the face.

 _Whahhhp_

"Ow! Wake up! Dang it! That hurt! It means I'm not trapped in a confusing dream nightmare thingy! Whhhhh!" Panicky, she opens the door again, just peeking out a slip.

The perfect angle of wind blows and sends a flower blossom, bright and pink, across and atop her nose. Lyla flinches. Her cheeks flame as she slams the door again—the flower blossom caught between door and hinge.

She runs her fingers through her messy, uncombed hair; then goes screw it and searches for her drawer, then searches for her comb, and the hair bands upon it, and then she combs at those messy curls. She might as well do something while she fails to comprehend things.

Running her comb through her hair, she mutters to herself as she works, "Maan, Freya didn't say anything like this was possible when she talked to me that da—AY!" Yanked too hard. She stiffens, tries again, manages, wipes at a cheek. "I-Iiif there's anything I'd remember, I-I think it'd be chaa—AAAA—nging sea—AAEE—sons... ouch..." She pulls through a few more furious strokes not unlike a knitter stitching her yarn.

But she's not coming together. Oh, no, she's falling apart.

After she's more or less satisfied, she yanks out her hair bands and ties them in, thinking oh, she might as well keep something normal and routinely. Also it's hard to do anything with this hair of hers. And it looks kinda weird if she doesn't do anything with it. Like a clown's creepy afro without the color or the face makeup... or that nose...

"Well," she mumbles, still a little shaky, "if everything is being weird, I guess I should ask Freya. Freya knows what to do in these kinda situations, right?" Then she perks. "Heey... if it's not Wherford season... then... that means we won't be celebrating Halloween... aw, nice, that holiday creeps me out... e-especially here. U-Ulh. Man, maybe we can do Valentine's Day or something, yeah, I love Valentine's Day..."

Puttering off like that to herself, she goes off once more into the strange gaiety of Wherford once more. As her front door shuffles open, the wrinkled flower blossom pops out, and it lands squarely in front of her. Lyla steps over it without noticing, and for a few steps the blossom sticks to her bare foot, but in the end it releases.

A few hesitant steps, and—"Oh hey it's Deli! Hey look! Deli! Hi! It's me! I mean! It's Lyla! Hi! Help!"

The monkey and the girl both toss this despondent, dubious, melodramatic _stare_ at each other—big, uncomfortable smile, wide-eyed. Then they meet up. He was over near Curlos's house, who apparently was up late last night or something and wasn't up yet today. She was... well... Freya! They agree to go to the northern half of town and pester Freya about it, but only on the condition that they scare Lucha first.

"Wait, how're we gonna scare the guy? I mean... it's easy. But how're we gonna do it?"

"Hee-heeeeee~" The white-haired monkey nods, his grin cheeky. "I just want something simple that scares the heck out of him. I dunno." First he looks at his arm, like there's something missing. Sigh. He casually lifts the loafer—loafer? He didn't seem like the type—off his foot, staring at it intently. "No." Tosses it back on the ground. "That wouldn't work." Smashes his foot back in. "We'll need a bucket. Or something."

Lyla blinks, rather bemused. "I have a cardboard box lying around... I think Isabelle gave it to me in case I needed to put something in it..? Uh, I dunno. Would that work?"

The monkey shrugs. "If you don't mind it getting soaked. You'll probably have to throw it away after." In contrast to his lighthearted voice, there is a bit of a mischievous darkness in his eye.

"Okay sure!"

"Neato!" He giggles, and then she follows suit and goes inside to grab her miraculous cardboard box.

In the end their little prank is rather simple: fill cardboard box with water, open Lucha's window, dump cardboard box upside-down on his face, run. That last part was probably the most complicated. It was hard to keep running with Lucha's screeching in the background.

Made you wanna break down and start laughing. It was bad. A bad scream. Not the kind you'd expect from an adult male. Maybe Lucha, but still.

And then he just starts screaming _louder_ when he gets outside! Well that's probably their fault. Didn't warn him about the sudden season change or anything. Pinkish flowery ground, blossoms in the trees, petals scattered all across Wherford. Spring... of all things. It's a strange thing. But it... although it... somehow it makes Lyla nervous. She... doesn't know... oof...

They first dove for Freya's pink-roofed home, then determined with the absence of activity in this house and the direct opposite in the brown one further ahead, on that little cliff—dang, she's with Fauna! Just a little farther!

At this point Lucha's stopped screaming in circles. Now he's screaming and coming _toward_ them. "Man, what a derp," mutters his best friend. They dive for the snug abode and slam themselves into the home once they reach it, panting and breathing profusely as the other pair of best friends stares at them. One set of eyes amused, the other notorious. Yeep.

"I'd like to ask what that was, but it's easy to distinguish Lucha's yell," murmurs Freya, yellow orbs lowered. She lets out a small laugh, then turns back to the little doe beside her. They're both muted in comparison to the monkey and the girl, and the bird that follows them soon after.

So they're quiet as it all sets in. Spring. Wherford. Freya and Fauna—being oldest residents here—would know best about... this kinda thing. Judging by their nervous downcast stares, they're not feeling strongly about this whole thing either.

Deli, face a bit pale, asks, "So—"

"It's a rather worrying subject at hand." Freya rubs at a cheek, still staring at the ground. Her small friend huddles herself together.

"Oh." He swallows, nods.

The wolf turns and looks up at them for a moment. "There's... not much to say. It's strange. It's very, very abnormal. We've never... um... seen anything like this before." She's nervous too. Very nervous. "So we're not sure what to think. H-Heh. No... not at all..."

For a moment, Deli's dark violet orbs watch and pull into the wolf, and he waits for a moment or so. But her barrier doesn't break—it's trembling, it's about to, her walls perhaps ready to finally fall down, the weight of these things too much for her to handle, finally. What a great fall it would be.

But it doesn't happen. He waits, she waits; her original panic subsides, and this new worry is absorbed into her demeanor, plastering a fake calmness across her furthermore.

"Hey—um... Freya?"

She grimaces slightly. "Yes, Lyla?"

"Umm... if... if it's spring now... does that mean we don't have to celebrate Halloween next week?"

She blinks, somewhat baffled by the question. "Well I guess not. I mean why celebrate Halloween if it's supposedly spring?"

Lyla quietly whispers "YES" which everybody hears. "Then... I dunno... what should we do? I-I guess Easter's an option—but... but... can we like, can we celebrate Valentine's Day? Next week? I don't even care how—can—can we?"

"Sure." The wolf rolls her eyes; there's big matters to fret over here and this is _not_ one of them. Let it distract that innocent girl. _Okay_. "Ask Isabelle about it. She'll help you."

So with that settled, because that was all she really cared about, Lyla wanders out of the house.

Lucha and Deli stay. Quietly, once she's gone and closed the door, the monkey leans in and whispers, "This is bad, isn't it?"

And outside the girl looks up to a sky only lightly-dusted with clouds. She can still see the reaches of that tree's freaky, half-dead branches... but something is off. It's... not that they're growing... more like the other way around.

And that makes her nervous. Oh yes, very nervous... she continues staring up into the sky until a headache hits her out of nowhere. Lyla slowly looks toward the ground, walking with brusqueness back over to the town hall.


	52. In the Inside of All Hearts

In the Inside of All Hearts

"Heeelloooooo..?" Past the entrance. "Uuum... aaaa-aaanyone heeere?" Past the little desk area with the opening. "I-Iiiissabeeeeelllleeeee?! Naw, dang it. Even my yell is too quiet." Past and—halt!—at the little opening before the staircase. The one with the painting just aside. With Wherford...

The river from its top-left opening to its middle-right deposit into the ocean... sand banks flanking the bottom and left sides. A simple green ground, very unlike today's surprise. The houses dotting where they dot in their respective colors, the town hall like a judge or a king above them all... manned by a tiny pushover golden retriever. Hah.

Now, would Isabelle be in the back room or upstairs? And is Frita still there? Well... Lyla looks down, noting the silence in the room just in front of her. The door is neatly shut but there isn't much going on in there... well! No sense to dawdle, then! Upstairs it is! Lyla's feelin' lucky!

And upstairs she goes on those rough, wooden steps. She considers resting for a moment—after all that running and Lucha's screaming... she's a little tuckered out. She loves the bird, but man is he tiring. And... well... there's everything else going on too. Lucha's the only one she's told and it'll stay that way unless he spills about it. She gets the feeling Deli will know too by the end of the week. But that's fine... he is himself, after all.

It felt good to tell someone about it, about the scary things going on inside of her... a-and outside, too, if the voice isn't some horrible piece of imagination. Ulh, okay, let's _not_ think about the voice she's been hearing at night, makes her uncomfortable. Like. Weirdo much? Ullhhhhg...

Maybe she should tell someone else. She doesn't know... that might help. N-Nnnnnh... but it also might not... though she supposes it ultimately doesn't matter that much... a-although it _feels_ like it does... Nervously she pushes her fluffy bangs out of her face—there's enough shadow cast on it as it is—turning the handle at the top of the staircase and finding the dog she was looking for.

Just on her bed. Book in hand—wait. No. Book and pen. And the book's cover has words on it, and the words read **My Secret Diary** like those girly tween things... oh gosh. Isabelle. Girly tween things. _Ooooooh_.

The moment she stirs from her reveries and notes the Lyla standing there, her face explodes. " _yyyYYEEE_ EEEEEEE!" Book shoved beneath her bed, face red, trembling, curling up into a ball of Isabelle fluff already. " IIII IIIII PROMISE II-II'M N-N-N-NNOT TW-WEEELLVE! I-I-IIII AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Lyla struggles to situate herself on the bed beside the girl. She decides this is one better to wait out than attempt to intervene. With one more sporadic cry: "PLLLLEAAAAAAASE DOO-ON'T EE-EE-EEEEEVER TEELLLL DI-IIIGGGBY I-I-I STILL DDDDO THOSE THI-THINGS HE'LL BE SSSSSSSOO DIIISSAAAPPPOOINTEED _DDDdddhhhhh_..." Shivering somewhat, slowing down. Breath, breath. It's sad but Lyla kind of has to focus on politely keeping silent. Laughing at Isabelle, as she's learned the hard way, will only prolong her efforts. Poor Isabelle. Poor Isabelle.

"So," she breaks the silence after the sniffling decreases, "who's Digby? Your boyfriend? Your brother? I don't think he's your dad... but I won't count it out quite yet... although I guess he could be a cousin or uncle too... uh?"

She's back to spluttering. Dang it, Lyla, that was obviously a "no" question. But... but she was curiouuuus! Dang iiiit! She hasn't known since she first saw the guy!

Because that silence is just getting bigger and bigger, she adds, "So, is he coming back sometime soon? He seems like the kinda guy to show up consistently in your life. Maaaan, you must be attached... that sounds nice..." Going on, because hey, she didn't say anything about it, "Maaaan, it must be nice to have a boyfriend... I wonder... Oh, or a girlfriend, I mean, I'm not picky..."

"LLLLLLHHHHHH!"

 _Brrrrkkk!_

An object has impaled the back of Lyla's head. Ouch.

"Ouuh, and I guess Frita's doing better now, since she's not here? Man that's great... back home... guess I'll have to visit her sometime, eh?"

Well that doesn't proceed with more thrown items. Great. Oh—hey—wait... Lyla's hand goes over and finds in fact that the thing Isabelle threw at her—fuzzy pink cover—those three words—oh hey, it's her diary. And then Isabelle realizes it too, and her voice goes up and squeaky and frantic all over again. Lyla really really wants to open this thing up and find out for herself who Digby is to this girl... but... that'd be rude... and she's not rude, just stupid... but she's not _this_ stupid...

The moment Lyla's drive crumbles the dog snatches that book back like there's no tomorrow without it. And maybe there is. She doesn't know the kinds of secrets this poor thing has. Slowly those aquamarine orbs—lackluster but not completely depleted—not yet, anyway—catch Isabelle's big sky blue, and the dog, blushing, finally speaks.

"U-Um... s-s-sorry... he's, um, a lot of things to me, I guess..." Her sunshine paws come together, her squeaky voice just as fragile and as sweet as Lyla's remembered it. "Y-You know? He means, um... he means a lot to me. A-A whole... lot." And with a tiny, near imperceptible smile, Isabelle's big eyes again take in Lyla's sorry sight. There is a wince.

Hesitance. Worry pulling the strings, the strings attached to those lines in her face. The blush, the nerves, and she whispers, "A-Are _you_ okay? I-I mean... Digby's always helped me, and I-I'm really thankful for... for him... but..." In her eyes flash two very different ideals: the memory of love and its coming, and the sight of the friend in front of her. "Aaauhh... Y-You don't look good!" She tosses back whatever Digby is and stares at her, eyes burning.

"I um! Dang it!" Lyla didn't want it to come to this! SSSsssstupid Isabelle's smarter than she looks. And waaaaay smarter than she. "Uhhhhhh! Isabelle don't do this to meeeeeee!"

Of course this only raises her friend's already high worries. "Ly-Lylaaaaa! Pl-Pleaaase! N-N-Nobody e-ever talks to me li-like you do, ra-aaandomly showing up a-aall the time! Pleeeaaaase..!"

"Whhhh!" Wincing, the girl releases a breath and mumbles, "Hoookay... but um... please don't... tell anyone. We-Well. Lucha already knows, and Deli probably will soon... but um... um...

Her head lowers a little more. "I'm not... sleeping well. Um. There's this voice... and it's a bad voice... a-and stuff. You know. Stuff... So I'm just... blaaah. Heh... hehhh..." She lifts her fingers to her face quickly. It's... different. Letting Lucha see her tears. He's a different person than Isabelle... r-right? H-He is... he is... to _her_... he _is_...

Oh, this is so embarrassing...

"I... ahh... S-Sorry, Lyla... um..." Her voice has taken an all new level of daintiness, of softness and delicate edges. "That's, um... that's no good. Ummmh..! I... um... I need to... um..." Lyla can feel the bed shaking, the girl scooting closer to her. She's very soft. Comforting... nnnf... "Lyla, um... you see... like... there's um... there's more to it than... it's... ah...

"Um... I-I guess I can't really help, but... but I guess you deserve to know. F-Freya can't t-tell _me_ what to say a-a-and what not to... a-a-and this might be important..."

Lyla stirs somewhat. "Valentine's Day? Freya said... she didn't care if we celebrated it instead of Halloween... so I wanna do that... did she tell you about that? No wait... she told me to tell you about that... ahhh..! Isabelle... I really don't want to do another Halloween... can we please do Valentine's Day..?"

"U-Um. Sure." She goes on. What is it with that girl and holidays? E-Eiiiither way tha-that's not the important thing right now is it! "But Lyla, I'm um... I'm talking about... so um...

"Lyla, this is hard to explain and... well... i-it'll be easier to believe since you live here but... ummm... see, there's this thing."

"Yeah."

"And it's... really bad. And it's... all over."

"Yeah."

"A-A-And it kind of... it's the reason everything here and nea-neaarby is... s-s-so messed up. A-A-And the reason Marsh... y-y-you know, a-a-a-and the reason Nook and the Abel Sisters a-a-are sort of... sti-ill here... ummm..."

"Yeah." Somehow this one sounds a little stronger, a little shakier.

"D-Don't try to say it though, because you can't but... it's the reason there's.. um... no escape. No chance—wh-whatever... this is i-it! O-Okay? Y-Y-You ready?"

"Yeah."

"His name is... um... his name is Jaxk, okay?"

That sends Lyla spluttering. "Heey! Why can _you_ say his name? That's no fair! He won't say why, he just says sorry when I try! A-And _man_ I'm trying! But I can't say his stupid name! But I really really want to! Gyaaaaaaahhhh Jaaaxxkikkkhhhhhhgg..."

And that sends Isabelle spluttering, staring wide-eyed into the floorboards.

"You already know him."

"Yeah. We've talked a few times."

"Y-You already know him."

"Uh-huh. Hey Issy, I know I'm stupid but I think you just said the same thing twice." Cough. "Now seriously, why can't I say his name right?"

She giggles, very softly, very thoughtfully. "It's not a gift... to say his name right. Psh... F-Freya thinks Digby and I are lucky... and Camofrog's onto something too... b-but we're not! It's 'special', not 'good.' And it's... uuuuuuhf...

"He-Hey Lyla? I think I want you to... stay here tonight. O-Okay? We can stay u-up... I don't care..."

I'm just worried about you. And scared and—all kinds of things. Frita went home almost like a different person entirely, and Lucha's not a hermit anymore, and there's nothing _horribly wrong_ with Julian, even though he... even though he... Oh, why did Bruce bring this poor girl on the train? It's scaring her... Isabelle hardly knows anymore than that wolf or that frog or most anyone else, but what she knows is that it's bad and that for some reason it's less bad now... and Lyla's not sleeping well, she looks so tired, and maybe they all look like that, she doesn't know...

Scared. Yeah.

"Isabelle?"

"Y-Y-Yes?" She must have a lot of questions now, right? I-It's only understandab—

"Can we work on planning Valentine's Day?"

Blink. "U-Um, sure. I-Is that all?"

"Yeah."

"O-Okay..."

If that is as she so desires...


	53. Or Wait

Or Wait

In fact, a good few minutes after they'd left Freya's and Fauna's, Lucha broke down and told him the whole thing.

Crying for Lyla, crying for himself and his awkwardness, or crying for those stupid skinny jeans? Well no matter. He was bawling, and that was that.

Deli traces a finger along his soft brown cheek, over the bridge of his nose, swirling about his other one. He's looking out the window of his simple brown home, elbows digging into the sill. It's dark out now... flowers still brushing about the horizon, so careless, so free.

His hand drops to the latch, squeezes up the glass, and in a heavenly scent waves. Must be those peach trees... psh, he always wondered why they had a couple. Like, what? Some apple, okay, Wherford was originally an apple farm or whatever it was, he can't remember, but peach trees: _hookay_. It's just been one of those weird silly things. He pointed it out to Lucha once, who took this big double take and quietly asked him, "And I was supposed to react to this how?"

It's hard being the best friend of a once-hermit. Harder than being friends with a hermit, because at least you're used to the fact that they know nothing. Now it's a bit annoying going on walks with that derp. He wishes Midge came back and picked on him some more. She'll surely be around again... but maybe not that soon.

She probably shouldn't be around, if all of a sudden it changed to spring. Like... what the heck is that supposed to mean? Maybe there's a light switch around here somewhere, and it got stuck on gloomy late autumn, broken and dark and steamy, and now it's... well, it's not _fixed_ , fixed would be... like, august or something. At least, that's what it was in Marsh before it all happened.

Well. If Marsh is gonna go missing, he supposes he doesn't need to go out anymore. That was the only place he went anyways. Heh... that kinda sounds like a sad way to live, doesn't it? He'd get some slack if it wasn't _here_ he was just _fine_ staying in... but it is. Whether or not it changed to spring... whether or not Wherford always stayed the same, gloomy and dark and annoying, well, he'd be fine. Fine enough... sure, it wouldn't be perfect, but he'd live with it.

Deli didn't know what to say when his best friend told him someone else couldn't sleep either. It was... surprising, to say the least. Psh, maybe now someone else will make an effort—intentional or no—to understand him. Oh, gosh, that's a _weird_ thought. Pahahaha...

Then again, everything's been weird since that morning Lucha wobbled up on his highly underused legs and stumbled all the way to Deli's house. Honestly. Ever since his friend started acting strangely... like, since when has the guy looked forward to anything other than those silly anime showtimes of his? N-No, seriously... since when has he cried that much since before his hermiting... hoo.

Man, is Deli gonna go through all that too? He... doesn't think so. Naw. Deli's too worn down, too run in his ways—like an old man—to escape. He's been around living so easily and simply for so long... a best friend who spent more time with screens than faces, a big family and the life of a middle child, older parents more keen on answering the television than their son's questions... hah. It's not that it was their fault, though... he doesn't even know what family he came from. Just one big group of monkeys... he doesn't look like his so-called parents.

It's funny. He thinks it's funny.

Either way, he likes Lucha's family more than his own. Practically _their_ adopted son instead. The adopted son chooses a second adopted family... man, there might be some rotten symbolism clouded in there.

No, he's fine. He's fine. He's not all emotional like that... besides, it takes a lot out of you to stay up all night and sleep when everyone else is awake. He tries but... he loses consciousness a lot too.

Yawning, the monkey lifts from his window, and, turning, places his fingers upon the handle of his front door. His amethyst orbs twinkle somewhat as he turns and leaves.

Hey, he doesn't have to listen to _her._ He'll go on walks all alone at night if he feels like it. He'll play by the rules when they're watching closely, but everything else is reasonably fair game. Lucha came with him once but it gave him nightmares, so. Lucha's not a night owl. They learned something that day.

Well that's sad. Lucha's such a big piece of his life; meanwhile his birdy best friend is complaining about that crazy girl stealing and wearing all his skinny jeans. Deli chuckles, long and slow, to nobody but himself in the great darkness. There's a few stars, although never a moon... he usually finds his way back home alright, and when he doesn't, eh, no big.

Lights off in his humble bamboo home, and he might as well be huddled under the blankets inside.

Deli's nose twitches. Where was that peach tree again? Somewhere over here... a little south, some west—ah, that's bark under his hands. He quietly clambers up the tree—bark shattering about him—and plucks a couple fuzzy fruits from above. Then stays in the tree. He's not picky; plus, if you shift around a little, toy with the branches, you get a good sight of the stars.

Also being shrouded in the leaves makes him feel alone. It's not a scary feeling, more peaceful than anything.

How many children were in his family again? It was seven or nine, something outrageously big—and odd—he was the _direct_ middle child. You can only imagine how loud it was there. And oh, the teasing, the roughhousing, the pranks. Oh, the _pranks_. Man that was the best part about being the middle child: no one blamed it on you. It was almost always him, let's be honest. Something he can know and keep all to himself. It feels warm, holding secrets.

Deli's not scared of very many things. Losing a core relationship—yeah, he'd rather not—and maybe the occasional hurricane, but... that's about it.

He takes a big bite out of one of his peaches. _Gurrrumph_. Chews slowly, eyes closed. He loves peaches. So sweet, so soft. Mmm... Makes quick work of the peach, drops the pit, but he saves the second.

Leaving his shrouding of leaves—it kinda sucks being this unnoticed—ah well—he's accepted it—Deli hops down and strolls around some more. There's a little pond up north of here he sometimes swims in, sometimes just chills by. It's good for washing off peach juice. Oh, so sticky. He licks at his lips, rubs his sticky fingers together. Everywhere, too. Maybe he will swim.

Well, then he'd better get finished up soon.

Deli darts off to that little area—between the pond, river, and before the cobblestone plaza. He digs off into the earth, tears up the peach, and plops the little pit into the soft, loamy soil.

Oh! His bucket!

He makes a stop at his house, grabs a little plastic kid's bucket well-worn and primary-colored, washes himself off, and goes back to his seed. Patting the soil over it carefully, putting the peach bits in there in hopes of good nutrients, he pours water down upon the earth. Once it is finished, he murmurs, "Let it work this time, please let it work this time... Naw, what am I saying." There is a sorrow in his face.

"It's not gonna work this time either. I know this by now... but I hope, for some reason, that this time I'll have a use... that this time something will exist that only I created... something that only I could do. Hah."

But he accepts it. He accepts that while his mind may be rather sharp, this dumb body is so useless. His small smile strengthens as he steps back toward the little pond, pulling off his sweater and jumping into the chilly waters.


	54. Maybe Not

Maybe Not

 _Pon pon pon pon pon!_

"Heeeey Freeeeeeyaaaaaaaaaaaa! Freeeeeeeeeeeeyaaaaaaaaaaaa! You know you waaaannna seeeeee meeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! C'moooon! Frey-Freeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyy!"

Hmm. Well that could've worked better. No movement from inside the house; only a faint wave of hard punk music permeates. Maybe she's... busy. Naaaaaaaw! She can't be too busy for Lyla! See, Lyla's like a goldfish—like one of those pets that don't need much of anything other than a couple things, then you can go ignoring them for a few weeks. Yeah, that.

And her attention span's a little like one too... well, naw. She just puts a lot of focus into the things most people don't put a lot of focus into. Like holidays. She must be the only one looking forward to Valentine's Day... but that being said, there aren't very many couples around here... pshhhh, maybe Digby'll show up. Isabelle never specified him... a lot of things, huh? _Are_ they dating? _Probably_? _Maybe_? She's gonna go with _yes._

"Freya! Freya! Freya! It's important! Freya!" Hmm, maybe she should open the door and walk on in herself. That might net her an answer. By this point she's not sure what will. Oh! Oh! There's an idea! Man, that's a great idea!

"Freyaaaaaa! If you don't open this doooor, I'll tell Faaauunaaaa you're ignooooriiiing meeeeeeeeeeee!" Okay, so blackmail isn't a very nice approach.

 _Creee..._ Hinges squeaking.

Ah, maybe blackmail isn't a very nice approach, but it also happens to be a very effective one. Bringing Fauna into the conversation _always_ works. Isn't it great when the seemingly invincible people have obvious weak points?

Anyways. There is a snarling pink wolf and her eyes are muted against the idiocy of the girl in front of her. "Oh, goodness, _what_ do you _want_ , Lyla? And please, make it quick."

She's blinking a little furiously, color rushing beneath her cheeks. Aw, now Lyla feels kinda bad... naw, but she's got something important to say! And Freya needs to know about it, cuz when anyone needs to know about anything, they go to Freya! It's just a thing that happens! So anyways!

"Um um! I'm... uh! I'm trying to figure out what we'll be doing for V-Day, since—"

"Lyla, did you _actually_ shorten Valentine's Day?"

Pause. "Yes, I actually did." Moving on. Freya's tired eyes roll. "So! V-Day! That is the important thing for this situation!" She is awarded with another roll of the eyes, one foot tapping impatiently against the entrance of the house's tile floor. The claws click against it, _ki ki ki ki ki..._ "I just... like, it's one of those things!"

"Lyla, why can't you be concise?"

"Well, you see, Freya, it's a lot bigger than that!" A grunt. She's annoyed. Welp. "It's like one of _those things_! You know, like a hippo! I feel like I'm one of those hippos in a clothing store where nothing fits because they usually don't expect hippo customers, and so I'm trying and failing so bad! Nothing fits! I'm demolishing fabric as I'm putting it on! It's a _mess_!"

Deep release of breath. She pinches the bridge of her muzzle. " _Okay Lyla_. But this doesn't have to do with me or—"

"BUT LIKE!" She's still quiet but she manages. "AND I HAVE TO TRY TO FIT INTO CLOTHES THAT ARE TOO SMALL! AND I HAVE TO TRY TO STRETCH THEM OUT! AND IT'S NOT WOORRRKIIIIIING! AND I FEEL LIKE A LOOOOOOSEEERRRRRHHHh—"

Freya yells. "LYLA!" That gets her to shut up.

Her paws clench and unclench and clench again by her sides, a constant kneading effort to the air. It's like she really wants to drop Lyla out of her head as _soon_ as _possible_. And she probably does.

Oh, why has Camofrog been such a moody jerk these past few days? He was good at subduing the girl.

Another sigh. Rubbing at tired eyes. Then, "Okay, Lyla. I understand that you have your own little"—oh, so idiotic—"problems, but I have things I'm dealing with too. And I can't answer all of your"—very, very stupid—"questions, so you'll have to ask somebody else about that. Umm... how about Fauna? She has a boyfriend, she'll have some ideas. Okay? Okay." And with a tired wave of the hand, she pulls back her door and slams it shut in Lyla's face.

Which she admittedly deserved every inch of.

Lyla, somewhat upset by the flow of their conversation, deserved or no, skips back and sighs at the plastic blue door. Her eyes catch onto that little felt broken heart, the one resembling Freya's punk soul, and she just... stares at it for a moment. In wonder. In worry. Why was it a broken heart? Could've just been black or something... nnnf. Questioning the felt life choice on a door...

She goes skipping down the side of the cliff, wending one of the little paths and landing into the sand below. Just a stroll, something, she doesn't know, finding herself rather soon face-to-face with the doe herself, just... sitting, back against the cliff, legs out beneath her.

A stroke of tranquility brushes along her soft brown face. Excited, Lyla darts up to her, plopping down beside her. Fauna stirs at this. She rubs at an eye some, smiling faintly. "Ah, hello, Lyla! It looks like you've found my secret hiding place, eheheh... although I guess it's not that much of a secret... or a hiding place. Ahahaha..."

Such a sweet little voice, a gentle twinkling laugh, a smile to match. Honest, caramel eyes... so small... so... oh, it twists the heartstrings! Even Lyla can feel its presence! Hah, no wonder Freya's so overprotective of the poor girl. No wonder...

She tells Fauna about her dilemma, using a great amount of flouncy hand gestures, the doe's head moving slowly with them. She blinks sometimes, eyes thoughtful and big, with one hoof to her lip in pondering.

"Hmm! This is quite a problem, no? Well... personally, I don't think it has to be a very big thing to move the hearts of Wherford. Eheheh... maybe just a nice place to look at the stars..."

"Like the plaza."

"Big, and open... good to dance in!"

"Like the plaza!"

"And easy to make _festive_! We can buy streamers and _everything_!"

" _Like the plaza_!"

Fauna breaks off into giggles. "Eheheheheh... well, yeah! If you'd like to make it in the plaza, I guess we can! It's got the little podium in the middle, so it should have a nice place to look at the stars... it's big, it's open, it's good for dancing~ And we can make it sooo festive! Eheheheh... it'd be more fun than just in front of the town hall for sure, I think!" Nodding, beaming, face bright and flecked with pink.

The pinkish ground and the flower blossoms stir overhead. Some of them go floating off the edge of the cliff, landing like raindrops into the sand below. Fauna holds out a hoof and manages to balance one or two: her face brightens even further.

There is a nice smile upon her face, one only heightening as the thoughts set in. "And... and we can invite Keke..! A-And Digby, and everyone else who wants to come..! It can be like a dance party, only _better_. Eheheh..."

The two share a giggle, nodding slowly.

"Yeah..." Lyla grins. For once the shadows in her face stretch apart, spreading thinly along her, taking away the tire from her expression. "Yeah, that's great..! Eheh... that's great... man, I hope everyone loves it. I hope that... I hope that for once, they get really happy about something... heh..."

Fauna's little head shakes with her agreement. They bounce a little in place, excited for the thought of it, excited for the thought of what they're gonna buy on their _shopping spree_! Ooohhhh maaan!

And it's a nice feeling. A nice thing. One precious to think about, one thankful to have.

And oh, is Lyla thankful it's not Halloween.

…

Moving slowly, one pink paw upon her forehead. She's leaning down, glaring at the floor, feet cold, hands cold, heart beating hard in her chest. "Ohh, this is horrible," she mutters constantly; sometimes missing a few vowels, sometimes without even saying the words, only running through them in her mouth.

Twitching. Turning back. Taking one long stare into her front door. "I-I... oh, atrocity of atrocities..." Paws curling, she pulls back to her front door, muttering things again. "Too much to think about... I-I don't know what to worry about... it's all so much... I just... I am... auh..."

It takes her a few shaky tries, but the lock manages to clasp shut. "Okay. No more. No more." Furious head shaking. "No one else.

Splutter. "A-Ah... E-Except for Fauna... because Fauna... Fauna's... Fauna's so... important... and she deserves so much safety... forever. Aahh... I'll be fine as long as she's... R-Right." Splutter, stutter, her voice so low and weak it's hardly a voice at all.

"Too much to think about... too much indeed... oh, this is horrible... horrible...

"No more... no more, but Fauna... but... she might... ahh... no more, oh, no more... okay. Oh, this is horrible..." Slowly she files back from her door.

Only she doesn't go very far before stopping. Shallow, rasping breaths. Eyes wide, eyes narrowed, eyes falling closed in desperate need of a rest. To stop seeing, stop thinking, stop _something._ "No... no no... don't do that..." Enough rubbing at them and she manages, but she is shaking. Freya pulls that coat of hers from her bed and wraps it around her, slowly sinking to the ground.

She sits there, then, staring blankly at the tiles. Her paws clench and unclench and clench again.

"Oh, atrocity of atrocities... oh, this is horrible... horrible... yes, very... hhhhh..."


	55. Because What of Those Stalwart

Because What of Those Stalwart

 _Crrreeeeeeeeeeeeee-clacka-clacka-clackaclackaclack!_

Whizzing by, hair all over her face, Lyla has decided that if she ever needs to buy a way of transportation, it will be the shopping cart.

Best invention. By far. She loves like kicking the ground to a start and then like putting her feet on that cold back bar and just... riding. Ridding the shopping cart—oh, what a cool cat she is. Cool bird? Barbaric... bird? Well. Lyla's a human, so she should really stop with that.

 _Vwrrrrr—bRRRrRrrschhhhhhhh!_

Ow! Ow! Aw! Heck! Stu! Pid! Stu! Piiiiiiid! Stupid Lylaaaaaaaa!

There's a voice following behind her, with the clack of hooves on tile. Just a murmuring, one that Lyla almost can't pick up, but she does pick up on all those apologies for her friend who's a little...well. Out there.

Heeey! Okay, that's a little much! She's sorry for messing up, now please take back those meanie words!

Fauna's soft brown dress presses against the shopping cart, toting it backwards, then against the girl who was crushed into both the wall and a small stack of boxes boasting of some appliance they don't need. Boxes everywhere. A few dents. She'll just... try to pull at their bumps and their bruises... but if they don't come out... w-well, they'll have to position the boxes on their little pedestal like they _weren't_ dented. Y-Yeah..!

A bit of brushing at Lyla's face, and her aquamarine orbs manage to work themselves open. "Hhhhn... Man... Fauna..." Wince. "Fauna... did you have to call me... 'out there'?"

Her friend stutters. "U-Uh! S-Sorry! I didn't mean it in a bad way... I just meant that... well... s-sometimes things happen, a-and that's okay..!"

"Yeah, yeah... well, I guess _everyone's_ a little out there then, because I am not the only one in the whole universe that makes mistakes." Lyla sneezes then.

Without pushing and riding the shopping cart again, they move on. Fauna's steering now. They go kinda slow.

There's already a few things inside: five or six red-and-pink streamer packets—on sale, because it's, y'know, August, in Butterfly; three cupcake packs; a punch bowl; punch mix; this really cute heart-printed tablecloth; aaaand that's about it for now. Lyla wants to find a disco ball. Fauna thinks that's not a good idea.

And Fauna was going to make the food, but Lyla wanted to have this precious V-Day tomorrow night, and it's already late afternoon... and it'll be a lot of preparation tomorrow... and Fauna has to get enough sleep or she won't dance! As per Lyla's instruction.

They found Keke before coming to the supermarket. Told him about tomorrow—he's coming. Well... of course. Psh. And he'll tell Digby and some of the others, too, if he can get them to come.

"Fireworks. Fauna, look." She points at the the little table in front of them, holding exactly that. And outrageously low prices.

That causes the doe's demeanor to slip, but she also doesn't know if getting fireworks for the brunette's gonna help matters... Lyla's kinda crazy... letting her light fireworks doesn't sound like a very good idea... umm, compromise, compromise... "O-Okay! But only if you let someone who _isn't_ you light them."

The girl complains, but she also picks a couple packs from the little table, because she'd rather have fireworks anyways. Man, Fauna, why'd you have to do that?

They stop around, picking up some balloons... a few different kinds of refreshments... chocolates—duh! Chocolates! Gotta hand out chocolates to the people you like!

Counting everything they've already decided over, coming up with the price... Fauna takes in a sharp breath. "I-I think we could afford one of those light things you wanted, but... but not a disco ball. And we'd have to rent the light thing, because I feel very surely about us not affording its full price... heh. But—but we could rent one for tonight... or, well, I guess two nights—tomorrow! Eheh, and that's still really exciting, right?"

Lyla nods dutifully. It is exciting. Maybe she'll leave it on in the town hall tonight, scare Isabelle with—naw, that's pretty low. Now, if Deli told her it was a good idea... but he didn't. So she probably shouldn't. You know? She really probably shouldn't. Oh. Just like with the fireworks.

Freaking smart people dictating her life... well. When they don't give her advice, or she doesn't follow it, she done messes up, so... she should shut up now. Speaking of advice that hasn't been followed—oh, the buddy rule. She—she's been doing well with it _now_... but... what was it that Jaxk guy said when they first... wow, that was so long ago... five or six weeks by now, or something crazy like that...

But he mentioned it again on that Halloween... oof... Who is that guy, right? Isabelle can say his name right. And that—that cat thing! The Katie! Right... that's so weird. Only special characters can say it, huh? But Isabelle doesn't call it a good special, does she?

Oh whatever. Lyla doesn't know...

She just looks over, and she kinda stares at Fauna, and once the deer looks away from the shopping cart and toward her she smiles. Just a little bit. Everything's edged in darkness, a sort of sleepiness that pulls at her body and pulls her down now, what with her great gaping lack of any kind of rest... and everything sort of aches in that form... but... all the same—all the same—she smiles.

"Heheh..." Softly, eyes averted, Fauna giggles. "Silly..."

Stupid...

After taking up one of those strobe light machine things, they load up their cart and find one of those cash register dudes. Looks like one of the villager's jobs, huh... so that's how economy is when it's not raw material... right? Huh.

The guy gives them a look: showing up with blatantly Valentine's-themed items in August, not to mention a few packs of fireworks and a light machine is probably one of the stranger checkouts. But other than that they get through everything fine. Hardly any bells left, though—some five hundredsomething. So basically broke. Well. She hasn't gotten the hang of hunting for wild animals just yet, she can learn more about it sometime... h-hoo boy...

In the end, that's not what matters.

They got things done.

It's all coming together.

Oh, what a show they'll be playing... what a show indeed.

"Can we have a sleepover and just do preparations when we wake up tomorrow?"

"Oh? E-Eheh! Of course!"

Only, eheh, of course, Lyla won't be sleeping that night. But... it's a comfort if none else to have someone there. She'll... She'll be okay. She'll figure it out.


	56. To all the Broken Deeds

To all the Broken Deeds

"Hey, Frita! Are you excited? Come onnnnnn right in! Hyaaaauh!"

"That's quite a way of receiving guests."

"Well... like..." Lyla whimpers somewhat—just somewhat. "I meaaaann... Friiitaaaaaa! I know who you aaaare! You're like super spunky and chill and stuff! So why can't I tryyyyy?"

There is a snort. "Psh. Lyla, be happy about who you are, alright? You're stuck in that body, through thick and thin and all kinds of messed-up things, so you gotta learn to embrace your stupidity."

"Ha-haaaaaaah! I guess I _will_!"

Frita merely shakes her head again, a bemused smile upon her lips. "You do that, Lyla. But—uhh..." She goes shifting about in the big Frita handbag she brought with her. It's got, like, frills and stuff, so it's pretty cool. "Ah." Out comes a brown little square. "Just—um—chocolate. For you. For... thanking and stuff." Her eyes narrow. "Don't question it."

"Oh, man! I am _not_ gonna!" Her face lights up where it still can—exhaustion crashing down upon her. They all see it. Such a sight on the poor, stupid, innocent little thing brings a touch of sorrow to Frita's grin. "Thank you very much, Frita! I trust that your eyes soon stop squinting because they are rather lovely~"

Another snort accompanies the end of Lyla's words. "Okay then, Lyla. You're welcome." With a nod, she approaches the plaza and enters its streamer-infested area. Just after Frita's head turns, Lyla pops the whole chocolate square into her mouth—and her eyes tear up a little. "Ouwwhhh mai gawshhh... she can baayke... reeaaaall sweellll... oouuwhhhhh... ouwhh gawsh, ouwwhh gawsh, gawsh, gawsh..." Shaking her head slowly, swallowing.

Jay comes next—very hesitant in way, head spouting left and right, eyes kinda wide. He doesn't say much as he comes in, only offers a few trivial words, then upon the little party.

By this time, most everyone has come, so Lyla could probably leave her position right now—but like... from here it's easy to see the strobe light in the trees, just chilling, Nibbles and Camofrog awkwardly sitting by it. Oh right—didn't he call her his girlfriend when they first met?

Dang. That was so long ago. Introductions... everything. What a thought. A small, thoughtful smile fits into Lyla's face. She misses... seeing him often. She hasn't been around the frog for awhile now, and it seems like whenever she tries to get close Nibbles is right there too, the turquoise pipsqueak very unrelenting and _very_ scary.

After Jay a certain white dog, guitar slung over his shoulder—now with roses in his hand, follows in. Huh. Immediately from the crowd ahead approaches Fauna, cheeks pink, arms wide. And they hug. Right there. Right in front of Lyla. And she thinks Keke kisses her forehead too while he's at it— _riiiiiight_ in front of Lyla. She feels like one of those awful people who crash parties, except with the guilt and without the free cake. But eventually they move on, and Lyla can breathe again.

She's about to go when she catches the telltale crunch of footsteps on flower blossoms approaching. Huh, someone else. She turns, braces herself. It's not quite who she's expecting: rather tall, curly brown hair, freckles, those reading glasses tied about his neck and nowhere near his face. Not to mention... oh _man_ , he dressed _fancy_ tonight. Tuxedo and everything. Hoo! Lookit that boy! What was his name! Lyla has _no_ idea!

"Oh, no, don't tell me you don't remember me?" That smooth voice, that sarcastic grin.

Makes her feel bad. Stupid boy. "Aaauuummm! I'm sorry! No, I don't remember you! Well! Wait, no... you're Train Boy, but that's all I remember. TB... that's not your name, is it?"

"No."

"Good. I was worried for a moment." What, she was!

Clearing his throat, the nicely-tanned boy examines the crowd ahead. "Bruce," very gently, "it's Bruce. Don't forget it, alrighty? Freya's been through enough already; she doesn't need you asking my name, too." With a smirk and a casual brush of a curl, he enters as well, leaving his name and Freya's behind.

Lyla blinks. "Well okay then. He is _just_ a _vase full of flowers_." But of course. "That's everyone, right? Bruce showing up out of nowhere, okay. The outta-towners are pretty much here I think... so yeah! YES! OFF DUTY!"

Keke hadn't just asked Digby—who eventually obliged—on coming. He'd brought one of his weirdo friends, this cat, who has like... blue fur and big red eyes. Rover, they called him. Said he was a charm. And apparently _somebody_ told Bruce, because Lyla obviously didn't. She'd completely forgotten about the guy... again. Man, poor Bruce. Tough break. Though does it really matter if Lyla remembers him or not?

She remembers that Jaxk alright. She's forgotten the guy before... but then there was what Isabelle said—something foreboding, she can't quite put her finger on it—and now he's probably not going away from memory anytime soon. She's not really sure how she managed with all the villagers—perhaps because she sees them constantly and she's pretty much stuck with them for the rest of however long?

Well... now what? Well, yeah, party. But like, who first? Somebody brought a stereo from their house over—probably Freya—so there's electronic dance music jumping off the cobblestone floor, there's people dancing, there's chitchat and Deli stealing the majority of the cupcakes already. Oh. Maybe she should get some before there's none left.

Over to the right-bottom corner lies the refreshments, with its nice white tablecloth and the hearts all over it. Deli, brown face trickling with a stream of crumbs, doffs his head some when he sees the girl coming. He opens his mouth, opts against it, and continues chewing.

"Hey, Deli!" He can't really say much right now with his vanilla cupcakes stuffed in his face, but you know. "How're you doing?" She leans closer, murmurs, "Did Lucha tell you?"

Swallow. Cough, cough. Another try then. "Hwey!" He swallows once more. Ah, that does it. "Yeah, he told me a few days ago. Broke down and started bawling all over it."

Lyla nods, understanding. "I kinda thought he was gonna tell someone, You, most likely."

"You know, you're currently in possession of, like, six or some pairs of his skinny jeans, and it's really putting him on edge. Only he's too shy to ask, so now I have to for him. Can we do something about this sometime?"

"Oh!" Her face reddens. "Sorry... I didn't even realize. Haaah..!" She looks down to find herself—not in a pair. Ah. She's in her cotton dress again, right. After Fauna helped her with it... she means... she loves this thing. It's been through four years of living on the trains. In the end, it was her last pair of clothing she still owned. It was... pretty crazy. Haha... she can't help it. "But I—oh my gosh, I'm sorry. I'll fix that. I promise. Just make sure to remind me too, heh." She smiles a little, looking away.

There is a small smile mirrored unto the monkey after her response. "Hey, don't worry about it too much. It's fine. I just... he's my best friend. He's a big derp. He needs help sometimes... and we all make mistakes! No harm in thaaat! Eheh..."

They laugh quietly, just smiling at the ground together. Then Lyla mutters, "Where is Lucha right now?"

"Uh?" Deli blinks, amethyst orbs narrowed. "I'm... not completely sure. Oops! Aaahahaa... I'll have to go find him then. Oh, the poor little dweeb..." Smirking, head shaking, tittering, he waves back to the girl, grabs another cupcake, and leaves in search of the strawberry red birdie.

He leaves Lyla, softly smiling, softly wondering, behind. And as he does there is a gentle tune that plays from the stereo, one that moves Lyla's feet into a spin if but for a moment. She's not very good at dancing, so it's probably for the best that she doesn't go on much more. Some of the others from the sides go into the midst of the plaza at the soft murmur of music... others back away.

There is a certain green character—short, streaked in brown and dark colors, eyes somewhat dazed from all the dancing—who backs away too. Retreating some behind the massive plazas tree. Lyla's heart jumps—man! She hasn't seen the guy since, like, he told her she couldn't come over that time... and there was—there was something else... something in the background... ah... crying. Right.

Hesitant, her feet lead her over to her friend. She tries to raise her voice some—still comes off as quiet. "Um. Hey. Hey, Camofrog..."

It's so weird having to lean down again. Most of her friends are so much taller than her... he just goes past her chest...

Slowly her friend looks up toward her, gaze distant. "Oh? Lyla, is that you? Man... it's been awhile, hasn't it? Sorry about that..." Eyes so glassy... I-It worries her a little. She doesn't want Camofrog to look faraway, she wants him to see the freaking V-Day she worked so hecking hard on to make happen!

And that smile. Oh gosh. It's _fake_ , man. That is a _fake_ smile. Glassy—and therefore cold—and therefore unfeeling, like turning over a stone. Oh come on, Camo. "Hey, uh... how've you been? I guess going through a lot, huh? Is that why you weren't able to..?"

"Well... if there's anything you should know about me," he murmurs, somewhat regretful, somewhat longing, gaze glassy and fake and far, far away, "it's that I'm busier than I wish. Much. There's a piece of my life that... I guess controls me. Shame, uh?" He's so detached... ulh... Lyla's gotta do something. Shatter the glass? How, though? Oh gosh. Maybe it's not supposed to be shattered... maybe it's supposed to be that strong...

Well too bad. So now what.

"Camofrog, uhhh... you look sad."

Okay, the blunt path it is.

There is a bit of a stirring, although not much. "No, no... I'm alright."

"Well." Cough. "Your smile looks very sad. And fake, too. Did you know that?" Wait he probably did—oh! Oh! That was a flicker of anger across his rather unmarked face if she's ever seen one! Ohhh!

Deep breath. "Yes... Lyla." Deep, and slow... and fake. Ulh. That word is getting on her nerves.

"Why then? Why does your smile have to be fake? Can't it be a real smile? You should smile real. I think I've seen your real smile, and did you know what my mom always told me when I asked her why all the other girls wore makeup? She told me that real is natural, and natural puts the heart out open. Which is a good thing." Is that what her mom said? Oh, something like that. Hm. She hasn't talked to her family in a long time... not that she _wants_ to. She simply hasn't.

Do they think she's... gone? Gone... like Marsh? Although maybe living in a home like this is supposed to mean gone, far gone. Gone like the feelings on Camofrog's rather unmarked face. Gone like the anger he so easily stirred and evened out and defeated. Gone like the flavor of... of anything left in him. _Her goodness_!

For a moment, the frog looks up at his friend. His gaze is blank, and open, and rotting and steaming with hate. Oof. She touches her heart where it thumps madly. "I rather hate stupidity. You don't have the common sense to leave this 'fake smile' be, do you? No. Not really...

"There's a reason people say 'I'm good, how are you,' you know. They don't want you to get in their faces."

Distant and aloof all over again. She hasn't... touched it, has she? Well maybe... maybe she can... oh...

With another apology, and an apologetic glance, the frog doffs his head and takes the hand of his returning girlfriend. And they walk away.

Lyla slowly blinks, somewhat numb. Her hands shake slightly. And she's so tired... but... but it's dark... and if there's anything she knows, she can't sleep when it's dark... m-maybe she should sleep all day, but... but then... what about her friends..? She won't see them anymore... s-so maybe she can... like... walk through all this. Y-Yeah. M-Maybe. That sounds like a good idea...

A hand touches her shoulder.

"Geeeh!" No—no wait. Not a hand. No, not at all. It's a paw. A squishy paw, squishy paw pads. The fur is short and fine but nice still to the touch. With a flourish, the paw spins Lyla round and into the face of that cat. Rover, that's his name. She tries to smile over her initial shock.

The cat waves his other paw, removing the first from her shoulder, as if to suggest harmlessness. "Well, hey there." His voice resembles Keke's—his dear dog friend—with intensity and level, only his is deeper, almost reaching a completely different depth of soulful tone. "How very nice to meet you. You're Lyla, right? My friends have told me all kinds of things.

With a shaky nod from the girl, he goes on. "I live on the tracks too, although I must say that Bruce is not the kinda guy I plan on being... ullh." Furious head shake. "You know, Lyla... uh, you're the newbie, right? You never knew about this place until like a month ago or something... yeah, that." A paw flits through the air. "You should be careful around here. There's many different sides to Wherford, and... well.

A mischievous, rather catlike smile extends along his lips. "Some of them are much more dangerous than others. I'm happy to see your soul hasn't been well... you know." Another paw dab in the air. "Like the others. Crushed, broken, whatever. Although I didn't expect the change of heart that came in... mmmmmh. Very thoughtful, very thoughtful."

Lyla asks the first thing that comes to mind:

"Are you a singer too?"

Rover, eyes narrowed somewhat, smirks at whatever it is he sees. "Sometimes. Depends on my mood." His soulful voice hums to these words, telling their own story. "Yes... oh, sometimes indeed. I may sing tonight. Probability, naw. Though I don't think Keke's really planning on singing either... Ahhh..." He yawns softly. "I'm sleepy..."

Lyla eyes him warily. "Hey, me too."

That catches his attention—his blue tail flicks in the air and he turns back. "Mmmh? Tired? Although... I suspect that preparing for the party can be rather tiring..." His eyes flicker upon her, up her nose, down her cheeks—they land in the bags of her eyes. He mouths a wince. "Why yes. I suppose _preparations themselves_ can be _very tiring_... uh?"

He's lost her a little, but she nods slowly, carefully. Rover titters in sympathy. "I suppose to the outside eye you've kept yourself safe rather well... but... ah. Poor thing.

There is a sad smile, then. "This is a sad place. I'm surprised you didn't leave after you first came. You might be lucky and manage while you're not... truly comprehending it all, not yet. Although...

"Bruce did bring you here..." A slice of shadow falls upon his face when he tips it just the right way. "Ah, the screwhead, why was he looking for someone? Oh... but I don't know." A slow shake of the head. "Tis a shame, what a shame."

He pauses, listening to the music, ears twitching.

"Well! It was swell to talk to you. I wish you great luck in sleep tonight, poor thing, and I trust you at the very least enjoy yourself tonight. If you ever need me, you can always find me on the trains... so I beg you to not be shy." A bob of the head, and a bob of his tail, and he leads off into the crowd again.

For a time she stands there... and she doesn't know what to think. Keke is singing, very softly, as this next tune comes on—they call it 'Wandering,' or as he goes, "Wander, O Wander, O Wander..." and then splits off into his chorus. Just over and over again...

It's a pretty little thing... and it makes her sway, somewhat, in place... just on her own. It's a cold night... and she wishes it wasn't, but it is... but then again, she is very thankful for the flower blossoms and the pink, so it's okay that the weather matches with February.

Gently, swaying, she closes her eyes just a little, dancing a bit into the music. It's kind of embarrassing, in a sort of cute way. Just a little bit...

"Hmmm. Lyla, what is it you're doing now?"

"Buhh?!" Wait, she knows that voice... slowly her reluctant eyes open and—oh gosh. It's _the guy_. You know... the black curly hair, the name she can't pronounce... he's... back.

Isabelle said some scary things about him. But... Jaxk looks like... a nice person... well, sort of. Not the kinda guy she'd wanna say no to... for whatever he's asking... Although the question he asked isn't a yes-or-no one. Psh. "Um... I'm just dancing I guess. Heh, alone..."

Jaxk's dark, dark orbs shimmer in mirth. "I suppose we should change that, now shouldn't we? I doubt you need to be dancing all by yourself now. Heheh... you poor thing." Face pale and angular, there is a small smile upon it... one of his dark and strange smiles. "You should dance with me."

"Ah! Um..! O-Okay..!" She pinks.

Another long, luscious Jaxk laugh, and his hands take hers, and he leads her into a small motion she doesn't really know but figures out easily enough. There is a small spin about her, and a step forwards, and three back, and another spin... around, and around...

His face is very close to hers. He asks, "Would you like to hear a secret?"

"U-Um... if you're gonna tell me..." Lyla is struggling to get her bearings right now, ohhh her goodness. "Then sure..."

"Okay." Very close, very close. Whispering. Maybe he doesn't know the definition of personal space. M-M-Maybe. "Lyla, I told you when we first met that you were going to do something rather... important. And you know what that is?" Wide-eyed and lightheaded, she shakes her head. "Ahaha... that's what's so fun about you... you forget. And forget again, ah. Well... here's the secret.

He takes her face in his hands and pulls his lips very close to her ear. Very quiet, very quiet. "You're going to manage something that nobody else in Wherford has ever done, very soon. Be excited, oh... be excited..." His dark and luscious tone pulls back, and she slowly lifts her head. Everything pounds.

And they dance again, wordlessly, for a little longer. His hands are long and thin and a little cold, and they hold on rather tightly...  
for some strange reason the thought of shackles enters Lyla's mind...

That strange mirth in his black, inky eyes watches her carefully, watches her slow and tired movements and watches the shadows in her face. There is a smile in this care, and a gentle hand releases hers to brush away a stray bang in her face.

"Enjoy your time in Wherford, Lyla."

Another smile, another turn, and by the time she's back around that strange, strange boy is gone.

She stands there for a time, somewhat in a daze, cheeks very pink, heart very fast. Rubbing at her fingers, burning with chill where he touched them...

Sometime later Lucha returns, red in the face once more, accompanied by a certain monkey. As Lyla's heart stills itself, waiting, wondering, she dances with him, only Lucha's a very awkward sort of bounce in place kinda dancer, so she struggles not to laugh practically the entire time. It's a nice change of things.

Deli doesn't even dance. He just watches. And comments.

And as they dance, the same song, Wander, O Wander, O Wander, plays on again.

 _In the morning dyed  
Colors from sunshine  
I like to sit and wa-atch the world_

 _Lives are passing by  
From the ground to sky  
And I know that, the people are thriving  
And we'll be alright..._


	57. What a Sad Thing to See

What a Sad Thing to See

She ends up all alone on the once dance floor.

Part of the cleanup committee, abject to some of her friends' asking she'd go home and sleep already—after everything—but a big smile and a big no keeps them away rather tidily. How... helpful. The bags in her eyes drip like wax from her face, the smile slowly withering overnight. Bags, taking away and putting away the things, Freya's stereo, it all goes away rather tidily. The others begin their stroll back—and she puts in her quick, helpful excuse: oh, I'll catch up later, it's just a little ahead.

They go okay, Lyla, and because they're rather tired themselves, they don't question it.

They're also not Freya. If Freya was here... she probably wouldn't... get away with this. Psh... naw...

A smile ripples along, twisting her expression in such a way that only a smile of understanding she is tying a noose around her neck can manage. Slow waving to the backs of the rest of her friends, receding like sunsets into the dark horizon, until it's just she and her dark, scary thoughts in her dark, scary world.

Lyla's fingers brush along the bark of the big, scary tree in the midst of the plaza. A natural barrier of dirt, kind of like a flower pot, has unearthed and bunched about the roots' entrance to the earth. It's almost solid, and with the uprooted cobblestones and roots there are a few stabilized places, but for the most part it's just as fragile as her current emotional state.

Slowly the girl lifts her bare foot and mashes it into one of such barriers. Crumbling, falling beneath her, rather tidily. She is breathing hard, hands extended like skeletons in front of her. Clench, unclench, clench, unclench.

A flash of wilting crosses her. Slow breathing. Slow fade. Her fingers cup and take her head, and she breathes and stays like that for a time.

"So dark... I don't even know where I'm going—h-hehhhh... I-I don't even know what I'm doing...

The stupidity encroaches upon her, and a scared, shrieky laugh extends out of her squeezed throat. "I-I hate that about me... e-eheheh...

"O-Ohh... I hate it so much... oh my gosh...

She tries to take a step forward on a shaking leg, nearly extending and collapsing to the floor, until she sucks in a breath and waits. "Calm down... calm down... Re-Remember what Frita said earlier? No..? Well... we-well... she didn't say anything about hating me, I remember... th-that. Ye-eaahh..." Forced swallow. She chokes for a moment but she gets through it.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. She thinks of Isabelle, then, so small and scared of everything, her will as unbent as these rocks beneath her feet and rather unlike the emotional state of the majority of the others—the vast majority. Come on. _C-Come on_. Chill. Or something. Count—yeah. Counting takes up a lot of your focus, just count your steps... or... or something. Something, anything, anything but this.

One step. Two step. Three step. Four.

Okay. That wasn't so bad, was it? Naw... it was kind of bad. Although... m-maybe not that bad. But it... but it was kind of bad.

She trudges on like this, in one big eastward stroke of motion. She doesn't stop when she reaches the river, only trudges on—then through that, too. Wet all the way up to her knees, past her knees, slurping up into the edges of her dress... Lyla shudders, once, from the chill of water. Y _YYYy_ yyuck.

But thinking about how cold and gross it is keeps her from that hopeful brink she so nearly sloshed into. So it's fine, it's fine. Y-Yes. Very fine.

Step, step, step, lost, count, step, step.

Oooh... what is that? That is cold. On her head. On her shoulders... down her arms... streaking little droplets like tears. O-Only it's not rain. No, much colder, much harder, like a snowba—oh. Ohh...

That worsens her pace. Sinking feet sink further and kicking through slush gathering about her very bare skin. She can feel them redden with the chill in her cheeks—nose stuffing up, head aching. Oof. But she goes on... goes on... she's not even sure where she's going—she just is. Sh-She just is, she just has to. There's... there's no other way.

But slush gathers, and it gathers quickly. Lyla has no protection other than a thin fabric wrapped about her torso, only in the area between her neck and shoulder because this is not only a short and thin dress but it is a short and thin tank dress. Oh, the worst of the worst. D-Dang. It catches about her head, numbing her mind, blurring her thoughts. As if it's on the side of... of... _of_...

Go on, Lyla. Keep walking. _This is a very good idea_.

Just _walk_ and _walk_ and _walk_ and _walk some more while you're at it_.

Good, go _od, goooood..._

A-Auhhh... her voice melts to slosh in her mouth... her breath billowing about her lips without sound. Her head, it aches, it aches... but voices aren't... aren't in her head... or her ears... or her heart, for that matter—nowhere. She can't... she can't touch it. So it just... keeps... on... saying... whatever... it says...

She can't focus... it's hard with... with all this... cold... numb... frost. It makes... everything ache... so much. S-So much, though... Oh... oh... is she falling..? Yeah... she might be...

what... happens... to people... who fall asleep... in the... snow..?

The voice, though... it... it doesn't answer that question. _Good ideas lead to good things_ , whatever... it... it doesn't mean... she doesn't know...

Oh, gosh, this is an awful, awful struggle... why... why... oh, _why_ is she so stupid...

Maybe... maybe she is stupid... but something very, very not stupid inside of her doesn't succumb and she... and she just she... she wants to fall and she thinks she falls but she doesn't... but she stops and she... and she can't keep going... it's so bad... is... is anything near here? It's so... hard to see with... with all this snow in her eyes... in the horizon... inside of... of... of Wherford... o-ooolf... Maybe she should... maybe she should... sit and huddle... for warmth... and sleep... and...

and...

and there is another voice now. And that voice... it... it has no words... No, not words but... but...

oh... struggle... struggle to think up exactly what it is... like Beauty's voice trembling upon the horizon... sweet, succulent... syllables... in a long... string... of voice... raw and powerful... voice... and accompanied by it—a-aahahh... si-singing... song... _song..._ that's, that's song... it's pretty... oh heck naw it's... it's not _pretty_ it's _freakkin beautiful_... it's... it's...

need... need to... need to...

Fingers jam and bump and slam into the door.

 _Brrr brrh rbbh ruub ruhb buhh bbrruhhh buh bubbhh brhrhuh huhbhbu hbub hruuhhh_

The occupant stares soundlessly and very very wide-eyed at the spectacle just out the window. And because Lyla's cheeks are bright red and her nose is sopping with snot and because that is just an awfully sad and potentially life-endangering sight, even though once upon a time it was decided never to do this: slowly the door creaks open for its first ever guest.

The occupant keeps with its violin in the corner, staring feebly at the unlocked and dragging door, and the girl who crumples to the floor inside. Drops the instrument, slams the door shut, checks on her frigid pulse, holding her fingers. Oh, gosh... still breathing.

Why? E-Everyone else... was supposed to be asleep... e-especially by now... Why is—why is Lyla..?

Slowly, head swimming, dripping melting ice upon the ground, these tired eyes open. Everything at first is a wall of unfocused dilemma, the ceiling spinning with a chandelier and simple cream color... walls... such an elegant papering... oh gosh... carpet so soft beneath her... the bed big and bouncy in a corner and... lined up...

Chestnut-colored, shining... obviously very well cared for... there is a little violin, a mid-sized cello, and a large bass all lined up on the back wall. The curtains are closed... a piano along another wall... music sheets held up and around like banners...

Oh... gosh.

Who... who lives here? Whose house is this? Whose... who is...

Slowly, slowly the face above her pieces together, and she can't help but gasp at the blue-feathered face, the little red forehead, the big dark eyes.

"Jhhhh! Jjhhhh—JAY!"

He looks away slowly, quivering somewhat. The violin's bow he keeps clenched in one wing, gaze downcast, eyed reflected somewhat in... in fear.

He coughs gently. "Yes... Lyla?" His voice is without the squeak of terror it usually contains during the day... as if his predators have gone asleep and left for the night... his now dull and low and simple voice very calming, serene. Unexpected and fitting him... so well.

"Jay..." She tries to catch those big eyes of his, and she tries to ask: "Why?"

Why hide all of this? Why stow it away in a closet, call yourself athletic—why hide such a gorgeous talent from the rest of the world? Maybe it's the frostbite but she feels tears nipping at the ends of her eyes. She can't fan them away; they roll down her cheeks like people down mountains, quickly, quickly falling to their deaths below. She swallows multiple times, sniffling.

He's still looking away. Shaking. Very slightly—shaking. "Be-Because..!" His voice cracks. He winces. "Because... Because..."

His wings come together upon his chest, upon his heart. There is such sorrow in his face, his head tilted downward and his beautiful bird features drooping, wilting.

"Because I'm in love..."

She stares at him, eyes wide and full like moons.

Only there are no moons in Wherford.

Stuttering, desperate, little Jay goes on.

"I fell in love. It's, it's..." He swallows. Shaking. "Fauna. Oh... I'm in love with Fauna..." His wings flutter, a mess, from his heart to his face. "I'm in love with somebody whose heart belongs to someone else. A-And... And!" Another swallow. Shaking harder. "And she loves a boy... wh-who loves music! A-A-And if she loves a boy who loves music... if she saw me..."

Shadows collect upon his downcast face. There is a shaky, hastily drawn grin upon his bill, and nobody is believing it.

"If... my love saw me... as if stealing the light of hers... a-and she hated me... and... a-auhh..." Fear ripples down his body. "If she thinks I'm—and then he thinks I'm... aaahh...

"I-I-If there's anything I know...

His moan, soft, releases his pain. "Ohhh... oh... if... if _she_ sees _me_ , the _real me_... and Keke... and... oh, it's a mess... I-I wish I wasn't in love with her... but she's so sweet a-a-and... and I want to... keep her... somewhere safe. A-A-And warm. And make her... smile. But... but I can't because... because to cross Keke... to cross her..."

His smile is fragile and asks she doesn't pester it. Begs, oh, begs she doesn't press on it and let it all fall apart.

"I... a-aaah..." Lyla swallows, looking away. "J-Jay... oh my gosh, I had no idea..."

Too much for him. He shatters anyways.

Slowly, shaking, he begins to pick up his broken pieces and shove them into random places, pretending, pretending they will hold him all together. He steps stubbornly over to his violin, and he gently brushes it, and lifting it to his shoulder he instead plays, just quietly, a song. And he sings to this one too.

It's probably just as beautiful as the last one.

Lyla can't pick up the words, can't hardly remember how it goes. She just sees his face. The torn angst, the anxiety trapped within him, his love, his fear, his hurt... his... inability... to show himself to others, this self-conscious soul piecing with glass a barrier to keep himself away from the others, a thorny bushel of secrets and lies to keep him safe, away...

Oh... Oh, Jay...

He can't put himself back together again. He tried, he did. But he can't. As his shaking and sobbing and shivering starts all over again, Lyla picks herself up, and she reaches over to Jay. And she embraces him, tightly.

Doesn't say anything. No, not a word. Neither of them do.

But they cry together. Quietly.

He lets her stay, all night, in his house. With the snow... and the chill... he proffers her coats, running jackets, anything. In one lousy closet shoved away in a corner he keeps his guise, his stupid fake athletic guise. And he lets Lyla use the coat, lets her huddle within his blankets as he plays his music to her, and neither of them sleep.

Shyly, blushing, he takes from the piano a card.

She recognizes it.

"I um... it... it was a song. Ju-Just something... Just something I... I wanted to... um." He swallows. "You can... give it to Keke. S-Someone should play it. Someone should... share it... I-I-If that's okay. If it's not bad... you can give it to someone, and let them give it to others... p-please..."

Lyla nods slowly. She thinks she tells him thank you or of course, fingers tight about the card.

Yes, she'll give it to him in the morning... he's staying with Fauna... does that every time he comes, just about... stays all night... she-she'll do that... do that just right...

"J-Jay..?"

"U-Um... yes?"

Lyla whispers... struggling, "You're... um..." It's hard to talk when it's this easy to cry... oh... "You're re-really... c-c-cool..."

Nobody ever told him that. He... he never... showed anyone... who he was... because people used to make fun of others.

In high school he pretended he was a track member to keep them quiet. Just pretended.

There was an accident. He hurt a muscle bad.

He didn't stop running.

Now he can't start... but... but like he cares... like he cares...

He'll trip and fall every three seconds if it keeps their hatred from hurting him.

Jay stares hopelessly out the window, and he mutters, "Th-Thank you..."


	58. Oh But is There Anything

Oh But is There Anything

The card left her hand into the paw of the dog. She tried not to look much at the card—privacy, right—but she did catch the dog murmuring over the title to himself.

"Only Me... mmmh. Thank you, Lyla. I... don't know where this came from, and I suppose nor do you, but... thank you very much." Humming over the chorus. " 'You are my darling... oh, oh, please don't go'... hmmm..."

She lied of course about that part. She knows exactly where it came from. But... to tell him... w-well... Jay didn't want that. So she won't. Sh-She won't. That'd be mean, very mean to him... poor shy thing. B-But anyways. It would be mean, so she will not, not, not. Even if she wants to... Lyla swallows back her hope and walks back through the snow.

Early dawn meets her somewhat-cloaked figure. Jay's big, fuzzy-insides jacket assists greatly in keeping her warm, oh, greatly. And the running pants too... bless that bluejay's soul. She doesn't really know... where to go from here. In the end she wanders into the town hall and knocks on the door multiple times.

"E-Ehh! Lyla, Lyla! Ohhh, you poor thing!" Isabelle's big worried blue eyes greet hers. But of course, behind her shoulder, taller and fiercer, is a very certain chocolate retriever. Button-black eyes sharpen in such a way that man, Lyla feels _uncomfortable_. She kinda wants to _leave_... but Isabelle won't have it. She steps on the dog's foot, muttering something under her lip about overprotective people.

The floppy-eared Digby very nearly mutters some other thought; only then he closes his mouth and struts off, back into the depths of the town hall. Isabelle, grabbing her fluffy pink coat from the rack beside her, skitters on outside and takes Lyla's hand.

She whispers, "We need to go somewhere else. May—Maybe it'll be better there, and... and maybe then you can sleep."

Lyla can't see her own face, and she hasn't seen it for some time now. Only those big, vast blue eyes, pinched to worry and trembling in deep waters. But it tells her something, tells her something bad.

Smiling feebly, she slowly nods. Lets Isabelle take her away from Wherford. Quickly, quickly... quickly. Heads bowed, she takes them upon a train and they go on, further, further away from their snowy little town. Lyla, just shorter than her friend, finds her body, weighted by sleep and Jay's dark clothes, practically a shadow to her friend's.

They take a seat together upon the train. She can catch the glimpse of recognizable faces if she'd only put the effort into it—but the fear of it being something strange and incomprehensible, Bruce, she doesn't lift her head.

Isabelle's eyes follow out the window, upon the snow dissolving into late-summer heat and shine. "Did you hear? I think... I think it's September now. But I might be wrong... I-I mean..." Isabelle giggles, hesitant. "I think it's September... but it might be later than I thought... h-heh, Wherford is difficult..."

Quiet again. The dog chances a look to her friend: face laid out on the table in front of them. O-Oh. O-O-Of course. R-Right.

Maybe Lyla's listening. W-Well either way... she's nervous... s-so she'll keep talking anyways.

"Did you see all that snow? W-Well I guess you weren't sleeping, so either way... of course you did... ummm..." Oh, how awkward. Lyla, stop being so sullen and sad a-and quiet—th-though it's not her fault if she can't help it! Ghhhhh! "You know... Valentine's Day isn't in spring. The weather—it was spring, but Valentine's Day, that's more the weather we had this morning... more s-snowy and... and winter and stuff. N-Not that any of us cared... or, uh, noticed, anyways. Since when do we kn-know these things, r-right?" Oh! Lyla, come back to her!

Their stop arrives. Isabelle can't look up either.

They take their leave. Zoosis—that's where. Lively little place.

Everyone in the town's asleep, but that's alright. That's... fine.

The late-summer early-autumn barrier isn't even a thin line in this town. Gleaming early-sunlight upon the grass, trees already abandoning their multicolored leaves for the bare necessities. Fruit falling—apples most abundantly. Homey, sweet-smelling, red. A comfort.

"C-Come along. They have hammocks strung in the trees in the further corner. Heh... Z-Zoosis is so lazy... b-but it's a peaceful kinda lazy, ri-ight? Only then they hardly got anything done but accept Shrunk for their little club. Heh... ahh." Her gaze skews—her face heats. "Oh my goodness, that's not him."

A tent in the midst of the town. She splutters, blushing. Green tent. Of nice fabric. Rather unlike the soiled personality of the one living within. H-He should be grateful he's not... trapped... yet... uuuf...

Lyla stirs at this. "Uh..? Person..? Maybe... maybe if we go over and say hi... and I do something stupid... maybe he'll laugh or something... Yeah? Heh... haha... That'd be nice..."

Frita's faint words, again and again. She can't even remember what they were... just the imprint of something beautiful...

Tittering, head shaking, paws shaking, Isabelle goes faster along the length of the cozy town until they find said hammocks in said trees just tucked into the corner of town. She manages after a few tries to get Lyla into one of them, only then she realizes one of the villagers is sleeping there and with a squeak of apology takes another few minutes out of her life to shove Lyla into another hammock.

They're airy, durable, colored: altogether nice quality.

As her friend finally lulls herself into some sort of slumber—some sort of anything—it doesn't matter as long as it isn't that horrible sense of _nothing_ she had running like scars down her face... oh, finally Isabelle sinks to the ground and sighs. It's... exhausting, just looking at it. Oh, Lyla...

"Please."

The words push from her throat to her lips. "Please, um, please." She can't stop now. "Jaxk—if you're listening... o-or Bruce, you know him or... or... a-anyone, really...

She covers her face, breathing heavily.

"Please stop breaking her. I-It's mean. It's—it's scary, too... she's so innocent and small... and she doesn't understand wh-what's going on... s-so please... please... someone... anyone. Please. _Stop_ it..."

She stays there, trembling, for a while.

And then she gets up. One more glance at her sleeping friend and she goes off to pester the fox with the tent, to ask him, Redd, why do you keep running? At least sell some worthwhile art pieces, the fakes you make aren't always that accurate anyways... to ask Redd, why don't you stop for a change and look around?

Because maybe she's scared of him, but there are people who have done much more on much worse whims. So she swallows, takes a hopeful glance at the sunlit sky above, and she goes.

It's not gonna help in the end, but it's the thought that counts... right? It's the thought that counts, and the thought, so small, so hopeless—like a seed—oh, it changes everything.

Let's go, she'll ask him. Into a future that may be brighter than today. And he'll give her a look and he'll use very naughty words to describe what he thinks he should do. But she'll try to smile anyways. Maybe. Just maybe. Maybe indeed.


	59. One Can Do

One Can Do

They eventually leave some time later. Lyla of course has no idea when, just that there's _some_ amount of light lying around in Zoosis. Isabelle's soft doggy face has been pinched and pulled today by her various worries, one of them she explains briefly as "The most stereotypical of foxes, bless his poor soul."

Wow. Since when has she been sassy, like, ever? Something happened. Lyla decides not to pester her friend about it since it seems that the predicament has deflated her mood.

"So!" Well nevermind! Talking it is! "D-Do you feel any better now? I-I'm not sure it was a good idea to s-stray from Wherford for h-however long it was, but I'm sure it's fine... a-a-and you needed it..." She glances up and out the window. "Oh, what is it? Evening? I-I asked one of the residents back there about the time and they ga-ave me such a f-f-funny look so... I-I don't know." She blushes. Profusely. Aw, poor Issy, they were probably messing with her.

Okay... so... what does she tell her? Crush her spirits with the truth or pretend now Lyla could keep going for another five weeks nonstop crazy? Uh... she doesn't want her friend to feel guilty... after trying so hard...

"Better, I think. Um. Thank you." She cleanly looks away from those big blue eyes, smiling casually. It hurts but it's whatever.

Isabelle's squeal makes it up to her. "RE-RE-REAAAALLY? AHHHHH! THA-THAT'S AWESOME! O-O-OH MY GOSH!"

Everyone on the train gives them one of those looks.

Someone asks, they don't know who, if the lady with the pigtails got married or pregnant or something, if they're so happy.

Isabelle sinks lower into her chair. The lady with the pigtails giggles softly.

She opens her mouth, thinks better of it, and closes it again. "I-I decided yelling an apology would be kind of counterproductive... right? So m-maybe not. B-But..." Her voice lowers with her head, casting shadows about her fluffy yellow body. "I-I'm happy for you... I'm happy you're doing better."

Lyla winces, nods. Of course, of course, only makes sense you'd be happy about it, that Lyla's doing better, so much better, right.

It's a struggle on the rest of the train ride to keep her eyes open. She knows it'll be her last chance to actually sleep, useless as it is, before she's back, and dang if her body doesn't. She blinks furiously, bites through her lip, draws her nails into her palms: anything, anything, if it'll keep her teeny boat from sinking.

Strange, what relief she finds in herself when they reach the town of Wherford and walking off the train becomes an easy, simple task, so easy with part of her mind iced around the back in the chill of winter, the needle-like poking prod of those voices. Oh, yes, so easy, so mindless, so well-oiled like a machine. The Lyla two-point-oh. Can't sleep, like, ever. Psh. Like insomnia's older brother, only he talks, too.

The big, baggy pants are such a lifesaver she nearly compares them to parachutes on a helicopter skydiving down, like, five trillion whatever feet. But that doesn't make sense... besides, as far as she knows, she's not exactly jumping into anything, more being shoved... buh...

"Um... Lyla, what are you thinking about?" The dog's voice is soft and hesitant. Putting back on her coat, shoving her paws deep into the front pockets. "You got so quiet, and you're... I-I don't know, it looks like you're thinking, but, um, _really_ hard." Another blush accompanies this. Her breath billows now in front of her.

"I—ah." Lyla's does too. Whoa, surreal. "Just thinking, you know..." No wait. It always does this when it's cold out... doesn't it? Awwww, stupid Lyla. "Thinking about... uhhhhhh... Toy Day!" Man, Lyla, what a disappointment. Of course you can see your breath.

Isabelle splutters then. "Um... another holiday? But... but... we _just_ celebrated V-Valentine's Day... a-a-and we kinda need Jingle for this one... p-plus, we're out of money, without Jingle... it's snowing... there's not much to catch i-in the snow..."

She pouts. "Dang it." Wait. "But nobody else remembers how Toy Day goes, right? Well... maybe somewhat—but—but still! I don't even know if we freaking did Halloween right, and we for sure messed up V-Day! Can't—Can't it be a party if we just say it is? Or... or something? Right?"

"Weelllll..." She's trying, she is. But... like... "I-I'm not so sure about that, he-heh... I mean—maybe if something _else_ happened, to, you know... a-assure everyone it's Toy Day a-a-and all but... just this?" Nibbles wouldn't buy it, and then Camofrog wouldn't care. Fauna might give it a chance, although that falters without Keke... but Freya would call it off, say it's stupid... with that much digression, Curlos and Jay would be thrown off... Deli and Frita probably don't care either way as it is... and who's to say about Julian? Oh... Digby wouldn't think it's a good idea either, and he's the practical one, tries to keep her from doing stupid things... ooooof!

"Maybe, um... ca-can we make up some winter holiday to like... celebrate? I-I-I should ask Fauna if we have more fireworks! That's a perfect solution!"

Isabelle's face rapidly pales. "Nooooo, pleeaase don't..." They do not need another repeat of that... oof, the paper goes everywhere too... and trash is no good... no, no, they do not need more fireworks...

The pale girl's smile drops, just for a moment there. She pulls at it, then, tilting her head, lets it hang there. "I don't know. I just... I mean... winter, Toy Day, celebration... it—it's a _nice thing_ , isn't it? I-I mean... bringing everyone together... something to make them smile—even if it's something stupid like giving them things, I-I don't know...

"It's a nice thing..."

They stay there for a time. Just quietly.

"W-Well... that's okay. I-I still like... I still like it here." She swallows.

"A-Aww... Lyla, I'm sorry..."

She reaches over to hug the poor girl for a moment there when—

 _Ksssssshhhhh..._

"Buhh!"

"Uhh—aa-a-aaaaaaa! T-T-Train? But... but!"

"I SWEAR IF IT'S FREAKING BRUCE IMMA... I DON'T KNOW!"

"I-It would be a-aa A RATHER B-B-BAD TIME!"

She doesn't know. They both kind of assume it's him because it's easier to face Bruce than an uneasy truth.

Like a reindeer dressed in felt red. A bag tied in a bow, carried thickly and carefully in his tiny reindeer arms. Twinkling eyes. A sidelong grin. The slow, careful wobbling motions from train station to the two girls standing about beside it.

As he approaches, he pulls a somewhat-crinkled note from his big red coat's pocket, handing it to Lyla, who cups it, staring nervously at the acutely-shaped rose. Gentle pulling, breath whisking from her lips, pulling apart the rose, opening. Nervously she reads what awaits inside:

 **;)**

"...uh." Cough. "You know what? Okay then. I am _okay_ with _that_." She inelegantly crumples the paper into a ball and shoves it into Jay's sweater's pocket.

"Well, Isabelle! Toy Day it is!"

Jingle stares nervously at the town he begins to recognize, but releasing a breath, he shrugs. "Toy Day it is!" in his chipper squeak. "Toy Day... it is."


	60. Is There Really

Is There Really

And so they go around with the reindeer, leading him through town. Isabelle they silently delegate—through a lot of silent expressions tossed back and forth—Jingle included—as the tour guide, because, well, Isabelle, and she leads the reindeer throughout their home.

"Um... S-Sir! Please don't lose yourself on us, a-a-as I don't think you've e-ever been _here_ before, but... ummmm... w-w-welcome to _Wherford_!" Isabelle extends her little paws apawlogetically—is there any other way?—as Lyla jumps up and cries some sort of little happy sound. It doesn't reassure him, but he figures the town he's heard so much about won't kill him if so many others have been here before.

Besides, there's a reason.

His hoof goes to his other pocket, where that big gold coin lies, the one he was given before being shipped here.

There must be a reason. He is sure of it.

Isabelle coughs, clearing her throat. "Uh—Ummm..." And then the town hall's door slams right open. "D-DO YOU WANNA MEET DIGBY?"

The reindeer very slowly nods. He gets the feeling not to would be some form of a very bad idea.

They stand and wait as the brown-furred brother or boyfriend or something of Isabelle's comes strolling down toward them. His boots—he has boots?—go crunching through the snow— _CRRCH CRRCH CRRCH_. He stands tall, hands on his hips like any upset boyfriend or brother, and asks the sunshine girl, "Would someone please tell me _what_ is the meaning of this?"

They all stare at him for a moment. Lyla goes, "Uh, Toy Day, duh? Jingle came, so we're gonna hand out presents now—hmmkay? You got that?" She turns back and whispers to the reindeer, " _He gets something too, right_?" Maybe then he'll shut up, stop being himself.

"Uuuhhhhhhhh..." Jingle's hoof quickly disappears down his big sack. He fiddles around for some time, finally pulling out a rather thick and dusty—dusty?—book. He hands the hardcover into the paws of the unsuspecting dog. "Merry Christmas. Here's your brand new dictionary."

He stares at the dictionary. Then stares back at the reindeer, whose face had dropped its slack and gone rather sheepish. " _Well_ then." And maybe because he doesn't know what to say, and if he doesn't know what to say he doesn't know how to sound cool, but either way Digby disappears back into the town hall and leaves them alone after that.

Isabelle coughs. "A-Anyways. That was Digby. My um... _b-brother_."

"So he's not your boyfriend?"

"LLLLLLYLA SHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhh!"

"O-Okay then, I-I was just asking..."

After the town hall comes a dip south, passing Camofrog's house and entering the domain of a certain blue-furred unicorn's. He's a pretty safe bet, right? It might look kinda weird and random getting a knock on the door from Jingle out of everyone, and then being handed something that's hopefully not another dictionary, or at least a not as dusty dictionary, but anyways when they knock on that fancy cream door Julian answers. "Mmmh? Why hello, dear Lyla. It seems you've brought friends."

He underplays his overreaction on the reindeer to a surprising halt. Lyla shrugs it off, goes on. "Yeah I did! What's up?"

"I don't know, Lyla. Would you please tell me what is up?" He smiles, bemused. But it's a different smile than Camofrog's of Freya's semi-annoyed bemused face, this one of pure simplicity and fun. No, seriously. _Fun._ His cool levels just seriously rose.

Lyla beams back at her friend. "You're getting a present, Julian!"

Although now _rather_ bemused, he nods, plays along. "Ah, of course. Is that why you brought Jingle? Please alight me and tell me if this is the real deal or a certain somebody pretending."

Jingle acts insulted, chocolate brown hooves upon his chest, then turns around with a whatever. There is no zipper to be seen. Julian, satisfied as he's getting, asks the bloke to turn around again. "So you're getting... let's seeeee... Ah." Jingle pulls out a pink stuffed... unicorn. "For you." And hands it to him.

The bemused face grows. "How... very, very kind of you." Julian slowly nods, and with another sparkly grin, gently closes the door behind him, not before adding, "Good luck on your excursion, Lyla and friends."

She just keeps on smiling, nodding, smiling. "Ain't he great?" Smiling some more.

They stop by Nibbles's house next. Her reaction... greatly differs from the unicorn. "OH MY GOOSSSHHHH! JINGLEEEE! PLEASE SIGN MY—MY—MYyyy..." She goes off, grabs a pen and paper, and tosses it back at him. "OKAY?"

Lyla has no clue how those with hooves manage. Still, he does, and the turquoise squirrel with her never-ending ebb and flow of energy finds herself with a little Jingle figurine for Toy Day. She greatly accepts it, adds in some fake kisses, and they leave her to her... whatever she's doing. Being herself. Man, Lyla's never seen her act _that_ ostentatious before...

How convenient that everyone's huddled in their houses while it's snowing. A stop by Frita's, one to Curlos, and then they head off for Deli, hand him his new pillow—this one water-resistant, good for him—and off again to the north of town. Back around the houses, up the bridge, and they pass Camofrog's house again.

"What the..." are his first words upon the knock on the door. "What the heck? Deli, get out of that suit right this instant before I feel a need to strangle you in it."

Jingle's face noticeable pales. As does Isabelle's. "D-Dude! Lay off the violence, please, or maybe I won't give you something! Geeeeeeez!" He pulls out from his sack a childrens' coloring book and practically pitches it at the frog. "B-Be grateful or something, okay?!"

He just nabs the thing and slams the door in their faces.

It's not until they stop by Jay's that Lyla begins questioning this whole process. While the majority of the villagers reacted happily enough—Curlos and Frita with their cooking supplies, unknowingly matching aprons—Deli and his pillow—Nibbles and her figurine... it finally sinks in that maybe this isn't as perfect as she originally thought when the bird slowly, hesitantly peeks a head through the door and is given a new sweatshirt for his efforts.

That's not... what he really wants.

He and Lyla share a blank, nervous stare, and with a nervous wave he closes the door—very gentle—and Jingle gives a nervous wave back. Isabelle of course has no idea, so the whole thing flies over her sweet fluffy head, but one glance toward her friend and she pauses.

And then _her_ doubts make themselves known too when their next stop is Lucha. He's already squeal-yelling at the door just before opening it, and stares with very wide eyes to the reindeer.

"So here you go, Luch—" Handing him something apparently called a "manga" or something.

"NO."

"Lucha. You should take your gift." Jingle's patience is starting to crack by this time.

"I-I-I-I AM NOT TAKING THAT. NO."

Jingle sighs.

Then the bird runs off back into his house, slams the door. They all stare wide-eyed as something cracks loudly by the side of the house— _CRRRRGH—_ and their birdy friend pops out the window. He spends a good few minutes running about the place until he turns back up with a couple sticks and a freakishly sharp rock in hand.

"Lucha..." Long sigh. "Lucha, are you going to take your gift now?" Jingle looks very tired. Not that they can blame him.

He begins rubbing the sticks about the rock. Probably has no idea what he's doing.

"I will burn it."

Another long sigh.

Lucha's movements slow when the manga nears the bag, but they speed—horribly—when its descent even begins to show signs of slowing or perhaps the horror of turning around. Jingle quickly tosses the book into his sack and Lucha gets no gift for Toy Day. Although it looks like, in the end, that is a gift enough.

He tosses his rock off toward who-knows-where, somewhere eastward, when the danger subsides. But it stays, it still stays.

Lyla stares at it for a long moment. She bites at her lip, just staring at the direction it went sailing... and she gently touches her neck, as if in pain.

With the call of the others, she turns and goes off again.

Thankfully they have no similar show with the rest of the others. Freya kindly takes her new Keke pajamas, and Fauna with the blow-up guitar, and finally Jingle's adventure ends at the train station again. With a quiet, worn-out thank you, he leaves Lyla and Isabelle their own little somethings and departs smoothly.

They each are the only ones to actually get something wrapped. Isabelle slowly, carefully tears at the paper, revealing a plush of a very certain brown-furred—"Bhhhhh! OH COME ON! D-DANG IT, JINGLE! I-I CAN'T ESCAPE IT CAN I?"

Lyla curiously pulls back her much more... rectangular gift. Shakes at it, doesn't hear anything. Shakes some more. Still nothing. Uh.

Finally she finishes and plucks open her shallow box, only to find naught but a paper taped to the bottom. This one happens to have a rose drawn onto the end of it—in such sickeningly beauty her face twists—and is a bit ripped, suggesting it was attached to—she pulls out her other note and finds similar incisions at its bottom...

 **Don't worry. Your gift is coming.**


	61. With Lives so Confusing

With Lives so Confusing

Days pass, some form of the word time ticks and ticks by, and the snow is gone. Beneath? Spring. Again. Still just as annoyingly pink as it was before.

Deli observes from the light of night—or lack of it—the melting of the ice, the gallant return of the flower blossoms. Just so easily had the snow fallen down; and before that, just so easily had the grass overgrown and filled brimming, trees shedding leaves and overflowing, with all those little pink blossoms.

He's gotten bored. Well. It is a little boring when your best friend—and everyone else—is asleep. And you're kinda stuck for seven or so hours in the dark. Without much to do. Other than try to plant peach trees that, you know, aren't gonna take root, ever, because this is Wherford. Because this is Wherford... he smiles a little cruelly at himself.

Oh... wait. Lyla—she's not asleep, now is she? Oh that's right... Well. He's thought about it, but he never actually... yeah... oh... huh. Well, if he's so bored, he may as well pay her a visit, too. She's awake, right? She's probably bored too, right? Then what's stopping him?

It's a short enough walk to Lyla's house with the room and the attic she has yet to use. A lot of eastward, really, and you honestly can't miss it. Even in the pitch-darkness. Just account for Curlos's house that comes first, and don't step off the edge of the cliff—no hard stomping toward his right—and it's all clear.

In front of the door. Okay.

...nah, screw it. He turns in the doorknob, and as suspected, it pulls outward rather easily. A shaft of slight starlight—as bright as it's gonna be—shines down upon the ground, but because it's so dark none of the two really notice it.

She's... just sitting there. Legs over the side of her bed. Staring off into the wall—well, until she hears the door creak and looks over at him. Dark, endless pits of eyes... oof. That is not something Deli wants to stare into. He awkwardly works his gaze out of hers, catches sight of those bags under her eyes, looks far away from that sight. He's... used to it by now, something. His body's used to it by now.

Her voice is but a whisper. "Sleeping doesn't help it."

He tries for a smile. "Nope~" It's a sad excuse for a smile and they both know it, but it's whatever. Deli steps closer to her bed, and without Lyla's digression, plops himself down beside her. They sit together like that, swinging their legs as if on one of those chairs that go back and forth above the ground. Her bed is bouncy—makes squeaky hinge noises when they move on it. How... delightful. Soft covers, her pillows tossed aside like whatever.

"How do you live with it? H-How long have you lived with it?" There is a sadness in her eyes: a great sadness reflected into his. Only he continues to smile. Not a fake smile, no, but not a truly happy smile either.

Deli shrugs. "It's been awhile. You... get used to it. Eventually. It... It tricks your brain into thinking you feel better for a little while, eventually. I've managed it—never overnight, anywhere. But I've managed it and it feels... well, it's not _bad_ , but it's not exactly a _solution_ either.

"So." He's bored on this topic. It's depressing. They don't know what to do about it. Whatever. "How have _you_ managed to do so much with these weights on your shoulders?"

And then it's her turn to shrug. "I... I don't know. Maybe I'm crazy and listened to Isabelle more than I should've... hahaha... she just. She had this whole idea. It kinda stuck to me... now I guess we're... well, we're doing _something_ , I don't know about _much_ , but it's still something, right? And I think that anything is better than nothing."

"Mmmmh." He's nodding. That makes sense. "Frita?"

She looks away. "Yep." Just quietly.

"And... I guess... uh, Julian, too?"

"Yeah."

"Lucha?"

She blushes. "S-Same as." Then laughs. "Well... I mean, there's only so much you can do with Lucha, but... well, yeah."

And then they both laugh. And they spend a few minutes making fun of his best friend. Obviously he and Lyla share something special—now they're both too much of an idiot to read anything out of it, but he's sure with some more helpful pushing and shoving they'll figure it out. Heh. Eventually.

Lyla's head tilts in, eyes narrowed and very, very dark.

Deli slowly returns to his slight, sad smile. "I'm sorry. It must hurt. Do you... have a lot going on up there?"

"U-Um... yeah, sometimes." The blush comes back, thick and red. "I... I'm worried about them, all of them. And"—her gaze turns from the floor and flogs right into him—"I'm worried about you, Deli"—right into his heart—"I'm really worried about you"—straight into the depths of his soul.

He blinks. Really? Is she really? Well... she hasn't thrown him off just yet. They might just find out. "What's your family like, Lyla?"

"Uhh... they could be better. I haven't talked to them in a long time..." She smiles hesitantly at the ground again. "But... that's okay. I kind of like it here." Her words still hit their mark. Hard.

Stupid Lyla.

Deli goes on, eyes pointed into some random shaft of space. "Do you appreciate them at all?"

She's... not very unsettled by this question. Ugh. She is rather dull. "I guess. They fed me, and they paid for the house I was living in—and they did my math homework for me when I couldn't... so... well, I appreciate that. Even if we didn't get along so well..." And she smiles, then, just slowly, at the ground.

How does this girl _manage_? Goodness.

People must have walked... all over her. Without her realizing. Maybe she would have done _just fine_ on the trains if she hadn't given everything away to other people. A foolish girl—traveling through her life and robbing herself of everything. A—A foolish... traveler. Perfect. Oh, Lyla.

But then it makes him smile too.

It's a good foolish. It's a horrible foolish and yet it's perfect at the same time. Slowly, casually, Deli puts a hand on his friend's shoulder and mutters something akin to, "Thank you" although maybe it was, "Screw you," but it was one of the two and either way it makes the girl giggle, makes her murmur, "Same.

"Deli..." she goes on, voice uncertain yet appeased with her faults at the same time, "do you ever have any problems? Do you ever, like, worry about anything?"

He giggles. "Naaaaw. I'm the rule-breaker, y'know? Heeheehee. You gotta look out for meee~"

But he admires that trait in people, those who do worry. Who try to fix what's broken and thrive in a world that has crumbled and given up all around them. They're stressed and they're hurt but that's not a flaw to him, that's... beautiful.

Deli was always one to tease those who he loves.

"You know..." she ventures on, "you know... Freya should learn from you. She's... crazy, I guess, pahaha..."

And that makes him laugh too, for a completely opposite reason.

They laugh all the way through the night, and after that night they pick it up like a habit, and they visit each other's houses and laugh all the way through other nights, too. Those skinny jeans are passed around and eventually given to their rightful Lucha.

And it's nice. Being listened to. _She_ enjoys him, even if he is a big failure. Flawed and everything. How does that make such a ditz smile? And then he realizes... maybe it doesn't matter.

And that's a nice thought to have.


	62. And Hearts that We Slew

And Hearts that We Slew.

She walks slowly and carefully through the flower petals, eyes wide and waiting—on belay.

The frog isn't in his house... the lights are off. Oh! Oh! Then—Then—Then _maybe_! Maybe! Maybe! Oh man, finally! Man, she has no idea what the heck happened and why all that wonkiness took place but hey look... finally the storm is over. Right? Okay. Now to find Camofrog. Lyla's... she's missed having him around. A-And she wants him to know that.

Let's be friends, she'll tell him. I'm sorry for what happened, but let's be friends. Okay? Is that okay with you?

The words savor on her tongue. Man, she has never been this excited to see her dear Camo before. Naw... not really. But... that's because this is a new day! New horizon! Dude, new possibilities! And she believes in herself, believes that finally... finally...

Thunder rumbles softly along the horizon. Lyla whimpers. "D-Dang it, I didn't think it was gonna rain."

Then she looks up.

"Oh... that makes sense. Welp."

She goes on anyways. This is her first mistake, first of many soon to come.

Mumbling to herself, she goes on. Checks the west, then stumbles along eastward—the others are around here, Jay, Lucha, even Digby. Wandering, talking, doffing their heads. Freya in Fauna's garden over yonder... living and going on, even so. Lyla excitedly kicks at the flower blossoms with her bare toes as she scuttles onward.

The thunder is louder. Not that it matters. There—There! There he is! Just over on the edge of the cliff, standing there, watching the shores of the sea from above. Just... standing there. _All alone. Finally_. Nibbles finally is out of his face... last she checked, talking with Frita about something... but... either way, finally, finally... oh, she's so excited.

Just by Lucha's bright red house. The light droplets of rain—those like a warning before the onslaught—streak down the walls, their clearness up against the red suggesting some form of blood. It makes Lyla laugh. It's kinda like some sort of art! Ain't that cool. Yeah...

"Heeeeeey! Camofrooooooog!" Her soft voice manages, carrying her all the way back to the frog who slowly turns around.

Her next mistakes come in succession. This next one with the look in his gaze—dark, murky, black. She'll look at it again and, for a moment, the thought will come across that it's a little... scary.

Oohhh, but that's alright! A true friend wouldn't care about his worrisome situation but love him all the same!

There is a sneer in his lip. Tucked in there, gently. "Lyla? I didn't expect to see you here..." Even so the sneer flattens and calms and smooths into some form of acceptance.

"Yeah!" She puffs a breath or two, doffing her head to her friend. "Hoo... it took me a moment to find you, but I'm happy I did! It's great to see you again! Eheheheh..." She smiles, bright and happy. "Hey... there's something I need to tell you..." Okay, here it comes, moment of—

The frog begins walking down the slope to the shore.

—truth.

Well. It'll come. It's just not here yet.

"Eheh... Hey Camofrooooog! Wait for meeeeee!" So she goes on after him, the first soft pellets of rain soaking into the sand. Her feet cake with it, multitudes and multitudes of tan little pieces, fragments like glass piercing her sticky, muddy skin, and the feet within it.

They stay then, just in front of the waves, not so far at all from the path. But it gets slowly and slowly further away, their backs pressed against it, his head in the sands. Looking, looking... for what? Man, the weirdo.

Lyla clears her throat. Okay... her heart bounces. Here it is. "Camofrog. Um... Something important—it's important, what I want to tell you. Could you listen, please?"

Nah. He's still not paying attention.

A few more minutes pass like that. His eyes solely focused on naught but the desert between them. Then with a sigh he glances back toward her. "What? You say something?" throaty voice tight and questioning.

"Y-Yeah... I did." Okay. _Okay_. "Camofrog, um... I'm happy you're doing better now."

Okay. He's listening. Good.

"And I wanted to say that... I'm sorry our friendship kinda soured for the worse. Because... you're really cool! And I want to be your friend, because I think you're really cool!" Her voice is a little tired from everything she's been saying these past few days, but she goes on, goes on strong. Swallows. "So I wanted to tell you that, well, first of all, I'm happy you're through that storm of yours! I'm happy that you've gotten better, and you're hap... uh...

"That... you're... happy... now."

He blinks, a little harshly. "Storm? What storm?"

"Um!" Squeak. "With Nibbles! Now you're both happy together, and everything has calmed down, right? And now you're—you're hap—"

 _BRRRRRRHHHHHHHHHHHHHG._

She halts, breathing hard. "U-Um... what I mean to say is... now that you're both in love again—"

He gives her a look that silences the words in her throat. They crumble away. She can't even remember what she was saying.

Another crack of thunder. Lightning pierces the sky.

"WHAT?"

"A-AUhhh..." Oh, gosh.

His eyes are very, very black now.

"WHAT, LYLA? _WHAT_ WAS THAT? LOVE, YOU SAY? HUH? LOVE? WHAT ABOUT LOVE?WHAT LOVE? I SAID, _WHAT LOVE? STOP STARING AT ME LIKE YOU'RE A COMPLETE IDIOT AND SAY SOMETHING_!"

Her heart freezes in her chest.

Oh gosh. Oh, oh gosh.

His body swings at her.

She falls back, stuttering, squeaking, the rain drenching her hair and leaving it soaking in her face.

"SAY THAT AGAIN! I DARE YOU! RIGHT NOW! SAY IT AGAIN!"

Sounds come out. She's not sure what.

"DID YOU TELL ME THAT I AM IN LOVE? DID YOU TELL ME"—those eyes shift; her heart squeezes—"THAT I'M _HAPPY_? OH. I DON'T KNOW ABOUT THAT. _THANKS_."

If there's anything she knows it's that he's not hap—

 _phfffff!_

Dove into the sand.

Lyla stares. Heart pounding. Words sounding. Or trying to. She can't hear herself over the pounding in her heart and his shifting in the sand.

Finally he unearths.

There is a freakishly sharp rock in his hand.

 _Then_ Lyla makes noise.

 _AAUUUUUUUUHHHHHHH! CA-CAMOFROG! CAMOFROG, PLEASE CALM DOWN! PLEASE LISTEN TO ME! A-AHHH... aahhh... hhh... ahh..._

Her hands out in front of her. Shaking, shaking. Eyes wide. Heart up in her throat.

All she sees is the glittering white stone, his fingers tight about it.

 _WHAT IS IT? HUH? WANT TO TELL ME SOME_ MORE _ABOUT THINGS I DON'T UNDERSTAND?_ Deep breath—deep breath. Breathing. Breathing. _WANNA TALK TO ME ABOUT HOW MESSED UP I AM? WANNA REMIND ME THAT I CAN'T UNDERSTAND EMOTION AND I NEVER WILL? HOW ABOUT YOU TELL ME HOW MUCH I LOVE NIBBLES AGAIN, YEAH! TELL ME ABOUT HOW_ HAPPY _I AM! I DARE YOU_.

Not happy. N-Not happy. No, no, no.

Camofrog lunges. She falls to the sand.

 _Pfffffh_.

He's closer now. Big, black eyes closer now.

Lyla scrambles backwards as fast as she can with her aquamarine eyes pierced into his but she gets the horrible, horrible feeling she is not fast enough.

 _Ca-Ca-Camofrog. Please. Please, I'm begging you. Listen to me—_

 _Wheeeef!_

Another lunge. Another miss. Her face is paralyzed in bright-white fear.

 _CAMOFROG, PLEASE LISTEN TO ME!_

 _LISTEN TO WHAT? LISTEN TO_ WHAT _?_

For a single moment, his face freezes too. His mirrors hers, just a piece of hers, and there are unspilled tears dripping like the rain down his cheeks. And he tells her, very softly, very shaky, _Lyla. Wherford is a horrible place. Please realize this. It's horrible, and evil, and everyone who lives here slowly turns into a monster._

The blade-like stone, so sharp and shining in the rain's dance, slowly inches closer to her frozen face. Pointed just at her eye, then her other eye, then at her pursed lips. Dangling between the three—maybe her nose?

Camofrog's face is but a mirror. Glass, glass, just like all the others. And he is a broken, broken mirror.

The rock comes closer and closer, and he lunges again—and he stops midway.

And he takes his shaking hand, and he aims his fingers, and he pulls the rock backwards into his own throat.

 _AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH! CAMOFROG CAMOFROG CAMOFROCAMOFROG—NOOOOO!_

She's not fast enough.

She's not.

But she's fast enough to take the rock away before he... before he...

His body sags. The blood drips like sap, slow and sweet and steady, down his neck, down his chest, down his body until its long thin stream eventually seeps onto the sand. It drips too from the rock. Two little holes of blood stamped on the ground.

But... but... her fingers wrestle, searching his cursed lotion-rubbed body for a... ah—ahhhhh.

Lyla cries out into the storm.

She whispers to herself that he has a pulse, a thin pulse, but—but he has... a pulse... a pulse... oh... he's not dead... he's not dead...

She drops the rock immediately and her head crumples into her hands. Ugly, dry sobs rip out from her body, rocking her back and forth as his head plummets into her lap, the rest of his body drooping in front of him.

She cries for herself.

She cries for Camofrog.

And she cries for the storm that will never end.

 **Past 100k...**

 **and the story goes on... hoo... exhausting...**


	63. There is Blood

There is Blood

Again there they sit, in their chairs, in the back of the town hall, just sitting there like they have before. Only the air is different now. It's... very different from those times, before she had her own place to stay, when she thought this was all a game.

Haha... sometimes Lyla wishes she still had that mentality.

It's obvious by now to her dear friend Isabelle that she was lying of the sort when she said she felt better. Sagging. Eyes long and droopy. Tired. Used, even. Very, very used: her physique reminding the fluffy retriever of... a candle, a candle with a flame long-lit and dwindling down quickly, quickly, as time marches on.

"S-So." She's never been at her best in quiet rooms. "How have you been... these... u-um, these past few days? Did—Did you like what Ji-Jingle gave you?" Ohhh, something! Anything! Anything to get the silence rolling, anything to clear this cold, hard truth from her brain. It hurts! Thinking about it—how it hurts! Make it go, make it go... away.

Lyla's blinking. Trying. Obviously. To pay attention, isn't she? Isabelle swallows slowly. Her face is hot. "Um... yeah." It helps with the flushing but she still... she still... c-come on, think, Isabelle, you can't... ask her to do everything how you want. "Um... I, er...

She's obviously trying. It's obviously hurting. "It was... nice, I guess. He left me... some note or another... er... I guess my gift hasn't... happened... yet? Or something... I dunno..."

"Well, that's very interesting!" A big, pathetic smile drags along Isabelle's face. "That's—why, that's just splendid! I-I guess! Y-Yeah!" She keeps on going, keeps on, keeps on. "I trust you like wh-whatever you get! I-I'm sure you'll absolutely... l- _love_ it..."

Lyla nods very slowly, her eyes wide and sad. "Probably..." Her voice is very soft. It's a little hard to hear for her friend.

But the silence... the silence is so... "Oh... come on! Th-That's such a quiet answer! I-I umm..! Um... sorry—I..." Cough, cough cough. "Wh-What else? C-Come on, tell me all about what you've been up to!"

Her eyes fill up, slowly, like an old, dripping faucet, with a puddle, a little puddle of thought. They stretch and stretch, her bright blue eyes big and sad and dull, and they hit the rock-hard truth, and she begins to quiver a bit. "U-Uhhh... well..." Then flavor colors her muttering. "I—ahh... Um... there was... we-well..!" She doesn't wanna talk about it, no, no. She's waiting for Isabelle to see if maybe her friend will—

"Aw! Lyla! Y-Y-You should tell me more!" No, she can't rely on her.

These words are so... aimless. Thrown like empty stones without a thought... but... when they hit... their mark... they are very hard to miss then...

"We-Well _Camofrog nearly died_!" Breathing heavily. Shaking, shaking.

"Yeah, di-didn't he?" She misses the thought yet again. "How scary did it feel when that happened, Lyla? Pl-Please don't omit any of your details!"

Lyla's eyes are big and ghastly. "We-WELL!" she squeaks, "WE-WELL YOU SEE! HE... HE NEARLY... HE NEARLY... THERE WAS A ROCK!"—breathing hard—"AND HE HAD IT IN HIS HAND"—she's not stopping for air—"AND HE WAS WAVING IT—WAVING LIKE SOME F-FREAKING FAIRY WAND—A-AT MY FACE! AND THEN HE—THEN HE—THEn... nnn...nnnnhhf..."

Her fingers knit a web of shame across her face. She shivers, shivers—lurches.

Some force of will keeps the puke in her stomach.

"I-I..." Her voice is very soft again, very dull, very hard to pick up and pluck from another's. "I think I'll... ah... g-go, now."

She stands up and leaves, forgetting perhaps to push in her chair as she goes.

The door doesn't slam, a very quiet echo as it pushes shut.

There is a quiet debate of words outside, then another door opening and said other door closing. Still quiet, still sound, still soft.

Then the door to the back room is opened again—this being forcibly slammed.

 _SSHHHHHHHHHhhh._

"I rather hate that girl."

"A-Ah! D-Digby!"

"I do. You know that. She knows that." The boy's face noticeably darkens further the closer he gets to the table, to Isabelle. "She goes around into everyone's faces, so _merry_ and _full of cheer_ , and when it all dies out and she _finally_ sees we're not playing she gets so _sad_. It's... stupid. She's begging, she's just... stupid. Clearly." The grimace is clear as well.

"And you know I can't stand people who upset you." Scoff. "Stupid girl."

Isabelle's face blushes, her head sinking. "P-Please stop that... f-f-for now..." Her thoughts,while desperate, and flaky, and selfish... she... she sees that... well... "D-Digby... just... stop that. Please." Stop... putting all that weight on the girl's name.

The lines in his face strengthen, but otherwise he is quiet.

There is a longing in his gaze.

Her blush thickens, the paws in her lap collecting together, tightening.

Gently he places his paw upon her head. There is a great sorrow in his face.

"D-Digby..."

He smiles, very slowly. "Isabelle..."

Like a curtain opening, the lines and the harsh certainty straightens out. And there is a little bit of light.

But only a little. Only a little...

"I—Aaah... I-I should go after her..!" She blushes again, but she forces herself up, pushing in her chair, and with another look at the dog she scurries out of the chamber.

He watches. And he sighs... slowly moving over and pushing in the chair that was left out like the sore toe its last owner is.

Why? He wants to ask it sometimes. Why, Isabelle?

A mask of confusion covers his halfhearted grimace...


	64. On the Floor Now

On the Floor Now

Running her hooves through her hair. Its curly blonde—and somewhat strawberry at that—curls springing with the touch, opening, outward, sparkling in the bit of light still present. There is a bit of a smug look curling along her lip, and she has her other hoof resting on her hip.

A nice shawl, rather suiting for her fluffy figure, rests along her shoulders, draping to her belly—well, in some places. She's got enough makeup to cover some sparkle, and that's honestly it. Modest, would some say? Yeah. Maybe. Much more... modest and simple than what she's used to.

But it was... it was just a thought. And it came out that way. S-So... anyways.

Frita, hesitant, cheeks somewhat red beneath her honey-brown concealer, takes her first few steps. It's more than another fine day. It—It is. Now she's... trying things out. Being a... a little... different, per se. A-A little bit. Heh... She's smiling slightly, and it's not one of her angry, gaudy smirks or any such whiplash to the eye, no, it's just Frita, simply Frita this time.

W-Wow.

Her gaze goes slowly, climbing upwards, past her orangey home just in front of Nibbles's and down some ways, and past she and _her_ problems too, and up to the bright, clear sky. Has she ever seen such a crisp sun in Wherford before? There's clouds, sure, trailing like toilet-paper strips on an amateur mummy, bravely showing off the semi-rapid disperse of tree branches in the sky... the great monster receding. Might it be so?

"Mmmmmh." Blushing, her eyes loiter back to the ground. "It's warm today. G-Geez... has it ever been this, ah, warm before?" Her hoof goes for the shawl, the nice scarlet fabric and the little pompoms trailing down it, the strange piece she hasn't really worn before.

Off from aside, a certain white-furred monkey spies her. His amethyst orbs meet hers, and she nods slowly. He's got this big Deli smile dangling from his lips. His dark fingers rise up in a wave; her goldenrod hoof mirrors it.

Silence. Then he quietly, as if dangerously, breaks it: "Hello."

She blinks. "Hi?" Uh. Okay then, Deli.

"It's nice to meet you."

"Ummmmm, Deli." Her eyes narrow, lashes flashing. "I get that I've changed a bit and all, but that doesn't mean I won't smack you. I'm ready. I am." That doesn't really change his demeanor. Whatever. With a flick of her sass lip, she waits in turn for his move.

And it comes. Slowly, surely, again in a bit of a hush as if they're breaking rules by the dozen. "Yes, nice indeed. Nice to meet the new you, Frita."

And the smile's back, big and small, outward and hiding: waiting.

She just snorts.

"Shut up."

And because she seriously wasn't kidding, and this dweeb needs to get this in his head, she swings her hoof at that dumb, cheeky, big bright face of his.

"Yeek!" He leaps back—missed. "O-Okaaay! I-I get that you're bein' serious, Frita! But it is—I swear, maan! It's good to see the new you! Haaah!" Awkwardly grinning, like a prepubescent middle school boy. It's not _always_ a bad awkward: _kinda_ cute. Certainly there's _someone_ who adores that kinda thing. Although his childish mind and teasing ways aren't one for this sheep.

And if anything, someone as loose as he wouldn't get him anywhere. There's an edge to his gaze; if anything, he needs someone serious and deep to help free of their stresses. He's got this air to him Frita's has all but noticed before: it's light, it's friendly, rather intoxicating and nice to be around.

He's a good guy. And that's... not a bad thing. And she's not... not a bad girl, for not being that way.

They eye each other curiously for another time.

Then, smirking, he asks, that cheeky voice of his louder and clearer, "Hey Frita?" Wink. "Have you _baked_ anything lately? You know... anything you'd wannashaaaaaare?"

"Oh, screw you." She bats a hoof at him again and he flinches a bit. Good. Whatever. "I actually... well... I wanted to go... er, ask somebody. About... things." She's looking away again.

"That's not telling me anything, and you know that! Friiiitaaa!"

She titters. "Someone's misplaced their manners. Oh, bother. I... well." Swallow. Mutter. "I... wanted to check on someone. And see if... she was still... you know."

Of course, that's hardly enough to go off of anything, but enough of it sinks in for that chummy little look on his face to soften, to harden. "Ah." Blink. "Heeey... can _I_ come?"

"Er... I mean, sure—just—just"—she coughs, her rough voice gentle—"don't expect that much. I... I certainly don't."

"Heh." Deli shrugs: the move so casual, his eyes so sharp. "You're loud, Frita. I dunno..." And then like the jerk he is, he doesn't elaborate on it. And he ignores her freaking attempts to implore on it—like _this girl_ had any shame in the first place.

Well. It's obvious his interests don't specifically lie in her. That's not the way you talk to girls, dummy.

...he doesn't have a crush on Luch—no... that wouldn't be right. They'd know by now. Besides... it's kind of obvious who _does_... psh, whether that idiot sees it or not. Like he knows exactly what she's thinking, or maybe his thoughts are all over too, Deli smiles quietly, head tilted, eyes narrowed some.

She leads onwards. It's not a long journey. Grass cool beneath their feet and littered, now, in golden-orange leaves—the suggestion of fall impeding rather quickly—the vegetation crackling beneath their feet loudly.

To the turquoise house just ahead. Stopped at the lively pink door, sweet and soft like freakin' _romance_ or something. Frita doesn't know. She's had a few crushes but she's never gotten very far, never cared enough about the whole thing. But there are quite a few in Wherford who care... yes indeed. The door in front of her, the squirrel inside... and _others_ , as well.

She and Deli have another of their funny little glances as she knocks— _pon, pon_.

"Wh-What..?"

It takes a couple moments, but after the rustle of keys—metal on metal—and then that metal entering and unlocking her unnervingly locked door, the big dark eyes and the sad greenish face poke through. Her nose is all shriveled on her face.

And then this takes a few more moments, but after the register on her face is evident—not Camofrog—nothing to do with Camofrog—hard certainty crunches her face together.

"GO AWAY! I HATE YOU!"

 _SLRRHH_.

The exhale of wind-on-face after the slam sends their fur into a bit of a tizzy.

They leave slowly, just a little away from the house, but far enough not to be all creepy and suspicious.

And they stay quiet for a moment, until Deli's soft white eyebrow raises and he asks, "Is that what you expected?"

"Well..." Blushing, rubbing at her cheek—and—dangit—there goes her foundation—"I, ah... I wanted to try anyways. Even though I kinda expected...

She takes her sweet time, clearing her throat. Binding her hooves together in front of her. Bangs falling over her eyes. "Even though I kinda knew... it wasn't gonna change anything. I just... wanted to try."

Deli coughs.

"Well, hey. Nothin' wrong with that—don't be hard on yourself about it! It's okay... right?

He catches sight of the sly little grin on her face; it provokes a snort out of him. "Oh yeah," he answers for her, "it's alright indeed."

They laugh shyly.

"That was kinda fun. Well. Not fun. More ridiculous... but you know." Frita shrugs. "A little bit."

Deli's lips purse together into a smirk. "Mmmm-hmmm. A little bit I guess. Not something I'd recommend, but yeah. It was okay."

They laugh again. Just quietly.

It was stupid. They both knew it wasn't gonna do anything.

But that's okay. It was okay.

And that's a good thing.


	65. On That Perfect Shining Floor

On That Perfect Shining Floor

"Nnnnnnnf! I-I need to do something! Oh... but what is there to do?"

Face stricken, Isabelle hardly notes the fat autumn leaf, the one that tumbles onto her forehead and spirals down her cheek. She brushes it away. The afterthought leaves her eyes.

And she repeats, because it's not like she heard herself perfectly well before: "Oh! But _what_ is there to do!" Her paws go to her cheeks, and she stuffs them into her face. She's looking down. Then she's looking up. Then she's covering those big, blue eyes with her paws, like she can't bear to glimpse into this unforeseeable outcome.

She goes on walking, and then abruptly trips and falls and crashes into the ground.

"OWWW! YEEE-EEEEEK!" Spluttering, face red, paws splayed out in front of her. "A-Aaauauuhh!" Isabelle twitches and twitches and falls back to her rump. She kind of stares at the sky for a moment there. Her bearings are just... everywhere. Slowly, lifting a paw from her side, she brushes at the sunshine fur, stretching it out—touching something... with a rather questionable texture.

She hurries to her feet, her skirt floofing up about her. It's a soft color, a whitish pink color, one that very well does not match with her autumnal surroundings. Confusion cuts down her wide-eyed gasp, her rather questionable bearings, these, placing her paws down upon the chair she swears wasn't just there before.

Texture: well, leafy. Color: very autumnal, very leafy. Wooden, too. A stump in the middle.

Oh... what rude villager hid their furniture in plain sight?! Isabelle in a fit of anger kicks harshly at her chair, which crumples over to the ground, just a tilt and a fall. It stays there for a moment, camouflaging way too well with the rest of the leaves spilled about on the earth.

Isabelle waits before plucking it back into its erect position again. So... soft. Velvety, almost. It's a nice texture. And although it's a weird chair, it's not a _bad_ chair. It's just... strange. Well. She has no idea what to do with it, and besides that she doesn't have the space... nor would the rest of the villagers, as they've lived here for many years now in their tiny cube houses and there is no way they have any space lying about for—

Oh.

"Ahhhh! Aahh-Ahhh—AHHH! THA—THAT'S PERFECT! THATS W-W-WAYYYY TOO PERFECT! D-DO I DESERVE AN IDEA THI-THIS PERFECT?" She starts shaking her head gallantly, mouth wide. "NNNN-NO! I-I REALLY DON'T!" She squeaks, goes on screaming all over again.

Isabelle plucks the chair from the earth and stuffs it into a hug.

"IT'S NOT FAIR! IT'S TOO PERFECT! AHHHHHhhh..!"

Frantically she pulls her mushroom-like chair out of its leafy home and takes it up to the town hall, where she hides it in some more leaves and hopes for the best. Well. At least she knows off the top of her head Digby'll think it's ugly—and it's the truth, the villagers in Wherford are both rather satisfied with their refurbishment by this point and without the space for more—so... maybe it'll stay. P-Please.

Shaking, shaking, she uses sheer force of will and pulls her paws off that chair.

And it stays. And she blinks. And it stays.

"Oh—ohhhhh. Okay. O-Okay." She nods, head bobbling. "That's... what I'll do. S-Since I-I-I'm given... this opportunity... I-I-I wonder... a-ahhhh..."

Isabelle goes off running. Her skirts billow about her, their awkward brightness forgotten.

Leaves crumple and crunch beneath her feet: _crrrh hrrrh chchrrrch cuurrhhch hucchhh_.

Isabelle kinda knew it was coming before she happened—the big leaf—the trip—the fall—the pain and the furniture hidden beneath. This one... wow, how did she miss _this_? Isabelle stares for a moment, wide-eyed: this... gigantic... metallic, mechanic—the kick of the foot and the trip assured of this—thing _._ It's... it's... ohhhh!

She makes a great deal of turning it about, its half-mushroom piece, and finds within the beast a screen.

Oh. _Oh_. A... A freaking television. W-Well. It appears this... this _mushroom_ _television_ must be added to her pile.

The dragging attracts some attention. Soon after, a certain white-masked and red-feathered bird, wings fluttery and nervous about him, comes stomping after. He points as Isabelle drags, the thought probably not crossing his unfortunate bird brain to help the girl with her mushroom television, and he mutters: "What?"

She tosses one hard look at him. Like a rock.

"It's... um. A-An idea! A-A-And it's a good one!"

He blinks. Then, eyes narrowing, forehead wrinkling, it's almost as if he understands. Then his face blushes a bit and he hops off on his own.

Isabelle shakes her head, sharing a look with her mushroom television, and continues dragging it toward her little treasure haul at the hall.

And after that comes another villager. Curly golden fur, big purple eyes. "Oh my goodness! Isabelle, what _are_ you doing!" Her confusion isn't very pleasant to look at, marks her up in the wrong places, gives her an impression of anger.

"U-Ummmm! I-I-I'm collecting a-aall the furniture... for—for someone! Y-Yes..!" Blushing, heavily, she fiddles with her television, leaves it aside in its hiding.

Frita smirks. "Huh." She's staring, she's thinking; she's nodding. "Cool. I think I saw a couple weird mushroomy things... I guess I'll go get those."

And off she goes, and off she does.

Shows up with two, too. When she returns... a creepy glowy lamp and a small and tidy dresser—each tucked under her arms—come with. Big, strangely warm smile, a happy dropping—nearly breaking—of the pieces that makes her face flush when she realizes. But she laughs it off, just quietly, a little awkwardly.

It puts a smile on fuzzy little Isabelle's face. She thanks her friend, who goes off, tells her oh, she'll get more, too! Just you wait!

Leaves Isabelle shaking her head, slowly smirking a bit behind.

And after her comes a very certain bird—the blue one, this time. Jay's big, big eyes watch over the items. He stops, leans over, pulls at a hidden bit of wood not unlike the dresser only larger and thicker in size from its leaning on the side of Camofrog's house.

He's looking away. "U-Uhhh... is this—is this what you're looking for?"

Blushing. Embarrassed. He can't sit still on his feet, constantly shuffling, favoring one of them over the other. Isabelle watches, curious, eyes big and wide.

It's when he puts too much effort on the foot he's hardly used that he goes scuffling through the dirt, with a _pouf_ in the leaves.

"Umm! Th-Thank you very much, J-Jay! Tha-Thaaank you! Thaank you, thank you!" She pulls her paw in front of his face. With a reluctant nod, his wing takes her pads and allows her assistance.

Their eyes are full of wonder; his are rather closed, she hopeful, open. Like a sad smile, they stay shut, hiding their answers. But he goes on before she gets nervous. "It just... it just made me think of—you know—a-and I'm sure you're not hoarding this all for yourself... a-a-and it was _right there_ a-and stuff... so... w-well." Fumbling, he pulls himself together and manages a shrug.

Isabelle claps, smiles, thanks, as he goes on again. Later on with his leave returns Frita, with a few more assorted mushroom-like furniture, she counting to herself, raising a hoof as if to suggest a couple still missing.

"Mmmm... th-thank you."

They share a nod; Frita away.

Quiet again. T-Too quiet for she. The colors fall rapidly in petals of pattern about her, crunchy and loud, velvety, warm. Soft colors, comforting. Loud and open and proffering... and soft, so very, very soft.

But it's so quiet.

Isabelle, blushing, begins to casually talk to herself. "I, ahh... I-I can't believe this is going so well." Eyes shining. "Lyla—Lyla might be... h-happy about it too..." Fingers tightening. "Y-Yeah... that'd be so cool, i-iiff I made her happy... oof...

"Because she's... she-she's not doing well, is she?" A sad little smile. "No... no. I-I'm kinda scared. Scared of... Jaxk, and... people... and things. A-And I want her to have that... I want her to have somethi—

 _CRRRRAUUUGH!_

"LU-LUCHA NO!"

But it's already too late. He's smashed in the t-television's screen w-with his clumsiness.

They stare at each other for a moment there.

"YEEEAAUUP!"

Lucha tosses something frantically at her and goes off running.

"O-OWWW! AHH!"

Isabelle wipes at her already-running nose, and her eyes too for that matter.

The terrifyingly large table, awkwardly lugged at her face, doesn't topple over, doesn't plummet. Doesn't touch her.

S-Stupid Lucha...

A few seconds later. A sigh of relief. Gentle moving, gently shoving, gentle rolling: table goes down on all fours. Good table. Good table. O-Ohhhh thank her l-lucky stars. Why did Isabelle get so many of them...

Her eyes still shine, even with the fright fresh in them. Happily she pats at her new table. There's spots on it—like a ladybug—or, say—like a _mushroom_. A nice, big, red table, white polka-dots, white and stout legs. Kinda like a fat old dinosaur... heheh. Kind of.

When Frita returns again, a coat-hanger like a javelin by hoof, she points and counts—loudly—at the items they've found. Alongside the others, a squishy chair, a little stool-like table, and bits of wallpaper and flooring follow. Of course, not enough—the rug has holes—the wallpaper is small and patches—but... something! Something. It's a good... uh, fashionable touch, as Frita calls it.

"Um... urrhhhg. We're missing an item, I know it..." The sheep's tugging at a curl, thinking. "Well." She blinks, disgruntled. "Maybe not, but I get the feeling. E-Either way, it's a lot... shouldn't be... well, t-too bad."

Frita shrugs. Isabelle shrugs. They pool in their lacking resources and begin to push their big items together.

Most of them reside on the table—their old faithful dinosaur with all their belongings on top of it—and a few in Isabelle's paws. Today she has learned to never, ever _ever_ underestimate Frita _ever_ again and don't even _think_ of getting in a fight with her.

Man she can _push_ that table.

Oh... g-gosh, too many scares in one day!

And they go on... and on... and on. Lyla's sleeping in her bed, or some sort of it, so they loudly pool their lacking resources yet again and manage, one by one, two by two, plowing all those resources up the stairs and into the second floor—rather snugly—or as snugly as it's getting.

They dust off where they can, and kick out the spiderwebs—oh Lyla! this is but a sty!—and scrub away at some of the creaky old floorboards. A bed is moved in, toward the side, with the puffed and opened curtains. The tables arranged. Dressers among the walls, with a lamp. And the coat-hanger, too. The chair left in a nice little spot near a corner, bits of rug and ceiling decorating and giving a lively enough afterthought. A nice, well-worn bit of carpet in the middle, a few dots around the spot. Bits of wallpaper threaded through in well-thought pieces.

Homey.

And it's nice.

"I still..." Frita halts, hoof on her chin. She's not panting anywhere near as much as her doggy friend. "I still feel like we're missing something. Gahhhh." Those eyes narrow again.

Isabelle shrugs, whispers, "We-Well, now it looks like we're not only trying to thank Lyla b-but turning into her... a-ahahaha..."

"Psshhhh! Isabelle! That was a nice one!"

"Aah! I-I don't know about that!"

Smirking, Frita playfully paws the air. "No, no! I liked it! Isabelle jokes are so simple and weirdly funny!"

So she smiles, quietly. And she accepts it.

And they walk back together, on the warm auburn night.


	66. So I Must Lock all the Windows

So I Must Lock all the Windows

So quickly, can the days pass. Turning, turning, and then spring again. Autumn leaves so casually disintegrate, or have themselves overrun by the flowers. Flowers in the shortly-barren trees, in the air, in the earth below, too. So pink, so rosy... so warm and serene.

It's hard to tell, these days, what time it is. Again the sky has cloaked itself, shrouded in its mist and its secrets. Pink flowers dot this horizon, shrouding it with themselves, so soft, so innocent... so pink.

Two figures work their way through these petals, these soft pink roads. It's... gentle, right now. And hopeful. And sweet. They bump shoulders as they stroll, causing the girl to laugh, the boy to look away and giggle very awkwardly in his very awkward way.

But it's not too bad an awkward. Kind of cute—kind of.

"Lyla... ahh, where exactly are we going?" His dark orbs stay swimming through all the pink on the floor. To his anklets. To his birdy clawed feet.

Another bump. A sway, like that of a drawstring bridge, clapping together. Another giggle from the girl and a blushing of the boy.

Pause. "Uhhh. I dunno. I dunnooo..."

"Oh. Great." He snorts. "We should like do something."

Lyla blinks. Concentration strains her face. "We... should?"

"Uh—uhhhh. Sorry. That was bad."

She giggles, shrugs. "Heh. A little bad. It's fine. Do you... uh..." Her gaze loses focus; she stumbles ahead a few steps, then straddles behind a bit. Lucha's dark and pinched eyes follow worriedly.

It's obvious. So obvious by now.

"Let's go somewhere..?" he adds quietly, wing pointing up to her cheek.

The thoughts connect in her head. "Ahhh, yeah... yeah—uh—that. Somewhere..."

A wistful smile reproaches her; fingers outstretched, feet stopped yet again in the soft, pink flowers. A couple fall upon her from where she stands, in a simple shirt blanketed by that jacket, in one of those pairs of his skinny jeans.

...when was the last time she changed? A glance to her pants, a glance to her face, a glance back at the pants. Uhhhhh. W-Well. Lyla... oh, dear. H-How long indeed. Those are some old-looking stains...

He wants to ask her but he doesn't. Right? It's like... there's a lot going on in there, and she hasn't been working her best. She's... slowing down... isn't she? E-Even so she wants to meet up with him, ha-hang out with him... th-that ditz... though he's done the same, he can't really judge. But... L-Lyla! G-Gosh..!

"Come along," he whispers. When he moves, she slowly follows, so he has to walk with thought in his head and a pause of each step, because losing her would be scary.

They straddle the line of the river. Up the land. Toward the right... past Julian's chipper blue home... and wandering, they kind of end up in front of a certain painted house. Lyla's lips purse, and her fuzzy eyes work, and work, and they work and try, her fingers fidgeting, until she finally manages to whisper back, "Can we visit?"

He's in his house. He's... safe. Hasn't been around Nibbles in awhile, whether that's good or no good.

"Um. Of course not—um. I mean." Of course Lucha thinks that's a bad idea, after everything... but... but she wants... ughhhh, fine. "Yes."

A big, wavering grin upon her cheeks. It's... well, it's worth it. Wh-Whatever.

They work their way slowly into the house, after a knock and affirmation, and they go softly into the room. There's not much of a light inside... dark and a bit drafty, but the open windows help with some shadows. Off in the further corner of the room, propped up in his bed, lies the frog himself. He's careful and tedious with his head—it's his hands that do all the work.

Holding the canvas, steadying. His other fingers clasped about a paintbrush, the color-smeared palette balanced on his chest. "Oh!" He plops his paintbrush into his paint. "Oyy! Lyla... Lucha! Please, come on in!"

They share a small smile, he and her. His dark, murky orbs try to focus on the bird; they doff their heads. Lucha's still kinda shaky on the whole thing... but still. Still...

"Uhh, hey..!" Lyla crouches up by him, examining his canvas. "Ooooh... ah... it's... it's nice, subdued, soft... I like it." She goes off immediately, pointing at random splotches and making Lucha feel very forgotten and very subdued and very soft and very forgotten, very not nice indeed. He smiles awkwardly at the floor and tries not to do anything weird.

Midge would ask him to be patient, if she was here.

He smiles a little at that.

Camofrog's voice is subdued, too. Translucent, like his painting. His voice and Lyla's go muddled and liquid, blending into one another, their syllables slurred and quiet. They've got their heads pulled together, eyes somewhat-brightened, voices perhaps not strong but not dull either. Excited. Happy. Shameful. Honest. A bit of a laugh, here and there.

Curious, Lucha trudges over to the canvas and takes a good look at it:

ah. Black. Very black and very gray, not unlike the others he spies stacked around it. And he wonders then, how in the world did a palette with so many colors smeared all over it get reduced to the blatant three: gray, black, white? Monochrome, man. What happened here? He can point out all different kinds of paint splatters, like a story, left in marks upon the floor, and in patches along the walls, and everyone's seen the outside of this house.

There's a big fish tank in the middle of the room too.

He asks Camofrog about it, breaking into their conversation. Quietly the frog explains how he used to have a pet.

Oh...

Lucha glances again at that palette—confirming—for sure—the only wet bits of paint on there are the black, and the white, and the gray mixed in.

He's nodding slowly as Lyla talks with him, just soft, just gentle. And she's nodding too. She's telling him—it takes Lucha a moment—about her room now. About the paint all over the walls and the ceiling, and the bright colors Isabelle used. There was a red, a very particular one, that made a mess out of everything. But—But it's a nice red. For sure.

"Hmmmm.

Introspection. Camofrog raises a hand to his head and rubs at it some. "I dunno. That sounds... uncomforting. Black's fine, right?"

Lyla gives him this look.

"Okay! Whatever! Black isn't fine!"

She splutters—"Not alone, not really! Nuh uh, man. You need, like, all the colors. You should try it!"

Very disgruntled. This frog is very suspicious. He dabs at his white paint and stabs the brush into the painting like a pencil on math homework. His eyes are narrowed.

"Noouuuh! Come onnn! Pleeeeaase?"

Camofrog's muttering again, messing around with his monochrome painting. "I-I think it's fine..."

Lyla tries to shake her head, cheeks blushing some. "No... no, no..." She's trying again—and she's... oh. Oh, Lyla. "Ummm... Camofrog... I... I like... I like..."

She's fumbling with her thoughts. Lost them again.

There's a bit of a splotch, like the black paint, in her gaze.

"Hey." He moves his hand, dropping his brush, letting it splatter the palette—placing it onto her hot forehead. "Okay. Don't push yourself. Color. Whatever." He smiles a bit. "Okay." Big breath. "Okay, Lyla. I hear you. _Color_. Oh—fine."

It's not until then that he gets some bit of a nod out of her. "Red. I like red."

"Great. I like red too."

Nodding again, squirming a bit.

Those big, dark, dark eyes of his catch onto Lucha's narrowed ones. They play a bit of a game, lashing back and forth, Lucha's big and awkward and Camofrog's small. And then he sees it—bright, sad. _Pity_.

Oh gosh. Pity. There's such a color in his eyes... so... so rich, so brown, so... _alive..._

Then he blinks it off and it's gone. And he tells his thank-yous to Lyla for visiting him, and he nods Lucha off, who leaves happily.

After they've gone, they walk about for awhile longer. Lucha's thinking. He's kind of everywhere. That dumb frog, the painting, the colors... red... the old manga he tried to burn... hah, the one that got away... Whatever, nevermore.

He shares another look with his friend, as they bump shoulders.

Such shadows on her face... such a tilt and a fall of the head.

Lucha blushes, looking away.

"Thank you."

"Thank you?"

"Thank you."

She struggles with the concept. Squinting, thinking, wondering, then, "Thank you, too!"

He smiles so sadly at the look in those eyes of hers. Those dull, dark blue eyes of hers.


	67. I Must Lock up the Door

I Must Lock up the Door

Evening slowly turns its clock into the abyss of night. Black shadows, stars shot through the sky, a hopeless light so uppity and far away it but hardly hits the surface of Wherford.

When Lucha brings up this fact, that he's gonna take her home now and she'll go to bed, then he'll run home and he'll go to bed—the color in her face disappears. There was already so little the shock of white curdles in his stomach. He tries to smile and it all kind of falls apart. Lyla..!

"Lu-Lucha?"

He whispers hoarsely, "Yeeaass?"

"I-I-I... please don't... a-ahhhhh... please don't g-go..." She's trying to smile with that big frozen look on her face, and they both know it just makes the whole thing even worse.

He pulls this horrible blank Lucha look as he asks her, "But haven't you and Deli been getting along so well? You and he, up all night, togeth—"

"Lu-LUCHAAA!"

The desperation in her voice changes the messed up thoughts in his heart, grinds them up, leaves the thick white paste loitering on the bottom of his stomach, to be decimated.

Quietly he tells her, "Okay," because by this point saying anything else would be heartless.

And he swears... he's anything... anything but. O-Or he's trying to be. It's hard... but he's—he's trying. He... _wants_ to be there. T-To help her. And if she's asking... well. What else will he do anyways?

They make their way down the well-worn paths of Wherford, down the bridge, down past Nibbles's and Frita's houses, down to Lyla's just in the midst of these things. He catches her taking a lonely look at the peach tree just by her home, reaching out to it: and then stopping, moving on, as if it was ultimately a waste. Nothing to be seen, moving on.

A pule forms deep in his chest. He stays close to this poor girl.

Her curls, he notes, have begun to hang... limp about her head. She continues to shove them in their little ribbons and leave them all out and dangling... but so _limp,_ so... lifeless. It's gotten hard to look her in the eyes, look upon most any given part of her face. Her fingers lay clenched and shaking by her sides. Her pale skin worn and dirty...

They bump each other as they reach her door. Lucha glances over—not a laugh, but a smile pierces him.

She's so tired.

Door open, she leads him upstairs, into the little area she's been describing some... this new... all these mushroom-themed furniture in place, the "mush room" as she calls it. The pun is awful. Everyone knows it; no one points it out. Not even to each other.

Lyla turns over to the table, toward front and left of her room, and takes a seat on the side of it. She's facing the bed... waiting. Expectant. Oh—for him to... oh.

Blushing. He looks at the bed in the corner. Then the table. Then the bed again. He takes a few steps toward the bed—stops himself—runs toward the stool in the furthest part of the room—stops himself again—and eventually manages to sit up on the table beside her.

She's smiling shyly at the floorboards by the time he's situated. "You're silly, Lucha." Something so simple and small... he smiles too.

They talk for a little while. About places... places far away from Wherford, from this more or less home of theirs. It starts because he mentions Midge, his older sister he may or may not miss, a lot, and it provokes the question of other places, other things... thoughts of a world far far away, just out of their reach and farther than anything else ever before.

Sometimes they bump shoulders again. He smiles stupidly at the floorboards, or the carpet, or whatever his eyes land on. It's funny, in a kind of stupid way.

"You know," Lyla intervenes, patting her hand on the table, "I've decided to name him."

"Name him?" Her bird friend grins softly, curious.

She bats a hand. "Well... yeah! Isabelle told me when I came up and saw the room that she'd decided it wasn't _really_ a mushroom, no, not this table. It's... It's a dinosaur. And I think I wanna call him Fred."

Lucha giggles. "I like Fred."

And then she giggles. "I like Fred too." Cough. "But," another cough, "I like other things too."

"Hm? Do you?"

That makes her laugh again. It's a soft sound, a little dull, but very happy and content, very thankful all the same. Her life is falling out of orbit before her eyes, destroyed with her soul, with her hopes and dreams, with her everything, slowly shackled into the world of Wherford: and here she is, _thankful_ for it, overflowing with naught but _gratitude_.

Dang it. He likes Lyla more than he's ever gonna admit to himself. And—and—and they're both stupid..! That's a similarity between them... he likes that... sharing pieces of traits with her... dang it... he does...

He likes red, too. Does she know that? She should. He'd like to tell her if he could work up the nerve to.

 _Pon pon. PON PON._  
"Well! I'm coming iiiin, Lylaaaa!"

"AUHHH NO DELI DELI DON'T—COME ON—DON'T COME IN."

"LUCHA? IS THAT—OH I AM _SO_ COMING IN!"

"GAAAAAAAHHHHHH."

He nervously shuffles and shuffles in place as a certain white-furred monkey, face cheeky and warm, crawls up into their little upstairs space.

Those bright purple eyes blink. He makes a show of walking about the room; only those knives of his, so sharp and so purple and so freaking smart, they stay on his best friend. He _knows_ it. Ulhhh. "Hmm! Lyla, this is such a nice place, I must say! And I'm very happy to see you here tonight. Yes, very... mmm."

He casually plops himself onto the table beside him. Because Lucha isn't as strong or as critical of a thinker as his stupid best friend, when dratted Deli begins shoving him in the other direction—into Lyla—dang it he's practically _helpless_ only to _spill all over that poor girl_.

It makes her laugh. Big, chiming giggles and bursts of voice, Lyla's soft and dull and special voice. So easy to please her... what a wonderful thing...

Lucha, blushing, slaps at his best friend as he situates himself. Deli just sticks out his tongue.

His dancing knives of purple eyes tell the whole story.

And then Lyla interrupts it all—

"Hey guys. I was thinking... about... uh, can we do another holiday? I mean—I mean... just one more, but... I'd really like to make one more holiday... for now. E-Eheh... just one more... just one more..."

Their eyes catch again, glimpsing toward the pale girl and then toward each other. The thoughts nearly mirrored, their sad smiles in correlation with that sad look on that pale girl.

Lucha nearly opens his bill to speak when his best friend abruptly sits on him—squawk!—and cries, "Yes, Lyla! That's a great idea! Lucha and I love it!"

Lucha does not! LUCHA DOES NOT!

But... it's too late, he supposes.

Lyla wants to.

Deli supports her.

And... wouldn't it be wrong to reveal his sense of dread and ask them no? No... look at the light in those shining eyes. See the beauty, the hope, the warmth within them...

He could never hide that under a bushel, no...

Let it shine... let it shine... let it shine.

Oh, Lyla...


	68. So You're Never Leaving

So You're Never Leaving

"K-Kkhhhhhhhh! CAMOFROG! CAMOFROG! CAMOFROG!"

She wails, and wails, and wails, arms outstretched to the sky, drops like tears in her eye.

And she stays like that for some time. She lets herself crumple and fall, knees splayed out in front of her, sitting on her turquoise feet. Waiting. Waiting for his return home, to his home, with _her_ , and she alone.

He arrives. Finally. After hours on end, and waiting, and a sunset to stain from behind the cotton shower, the misty shroud. Flowers petal the sky in his descent, landing in heaps as his colorful dark skin comes in contact with this air again.

That stupid brunette girl—the human they took in—she's with him too. Holding his shopping bags. Giving, moving, waving, bye. _Good_. You better _stay that way_ , jerk.

It was when he laid his eyes on the squirrel that he quietly, with a sorry, sent away his friend. Putting on whatever brave face he has left, the frog slowly trots over to his girlfriend. He places his shopping bags on the ground; his sweater blares in her face, one that she _hadn't_ got for him. H-How _rude_ of him! Stupid. Stupid Camofrog.

Perhaps he reads the words on her face, for it is then that the lines he's carried for so long, that disappeared in those hours shopping, then they return.

He doesn't bother smiling. "Nibbles, what do you want?" Voice thick and throaty. Quiet. Submissive.

"You!" She pulls up to her feet and plants her paws on his chest, and she glares as fiercely as she can with all her mascara and all her foundation on. "I want _you_ , you know that, Camo! C-Come onnn!" Her gaze narrows with her paws, which fold in on his sweater.

"Ah... well, it's as I thought." Camofrog releases a breath in her face. Sighs. "Nibbles... how do I say this..." He looks away, looks at his shopping bags, looks at her shirt, one with a cute little froggy face on it. Anything but those big, beady eyes.

She whispers, "Hmmmm? What is it you have to tell me?" Practically purring. Desperate. She wants to know. Anything, anything, for her Camo.

Cough. "Nibbles?"

"Yes?"

The excitement in her voice makes it harder to speak. He takes another few moments.

Then another sigh. Possibly the last in her presence. "Nibbles... I think we should break up."

"WHAT?"

 _PaahhhHHHCK!_

He'd braced, knowing the slap was coming, where it was gonna hit—his cheek. That helps. He braces again, waiting, as more slaps follow. Not too many... but enough to mean business.

There is a heat on her paws. Nibbles is not happy. But... then again, why should she? He just told her the one thing any deserving and sweet girl never wants to hear, not from anyone. But... but he thought... he thinks that... i-it's for the best. This... _girl_... of his...

he hasn't been able to understand her ever since this town and the monster behind it destroyed them. He just... he physically _can't_. It doesn't matter if he wants to... he can't, he can't. Not Nibbles, not Lyla—not anyone. Not even... himself. Hah. No. Especially not that.

And she's the exact opposite. She... can't control herself, similarly... only _her_ emotions are... well...

The glare in those tiny brown eyes make him wince. He's under the pressure, it's sitting on top of him, waiting, waiting.

Quietly. "No." And that's it.

"No? Nibbles..." He's whispering now, eyes big and murky. "Nibbles, can't you tell that this is going _nowhere_?" Then... a drop. The murkiness shifts. "Nibbles, we've been going out for years now and we haven't made even a bit of progress in any way. Heck... not better, _or_ worse. I'd almost rather we were falling apart than... than this."

Confusion. A spark of light in those big dark eyes.

"But I suppose in this way we _are_ falling." A long, slow chuckle. The murkiness returns. "Yes... falling."

 _PWAAACK_!

Another slap. He flinches. Confusion returns, unclouded, clear.

She comes back strong. "N-NO, CAMOFROG! THERE'S A REASON I'M IN LOVE WITH YOU A-AND I AM NOT LETTING GO OF THAT!" Heaving her breaths, breathing hard, hardly breathing.

Something else unearths from those murky waters: and it's naught but Pity herself.

"You know that doesn't mean everything. People change, Nibbles, all the time."

"YOU KNOW WHAT, CAMOFROG! IT'S JUST AS YOU WERE SAYING! WE—HAVEN'T—CHANGED."

Another flinch back. Not a slap but... those _words_. He tries to stay calm, to stay quiet. "Nibbles, you know very well then that I can't understand what you're saying, that I just _can't_ , and that I don't get feelings, and love, and _whatever_ , and that—"

"SHHHHUT UP!"

A foot goes kicking. It knocks over one of his bags.

 _Crrrrk!_

A small stream of color dribbles out of it. Red, red, a plentiful strawberry red. Soft, and smooth, and red. Like feathers, red, the feathers of a sunset bird in the sky.

They both take a moment to stare at the damage.

She doesn't apologize. He doesn't ask her to.

Slowly she goes back onto her knees, shifting through the bag, pulling out the little cracked glass bottle that still holds a good three-fourths or so of red paint. She stares, for a moment, at the blob of red paint on her paw pad. Then she slowly, slowly moves her paw to the grass beneath and attempts to create something.

It reminds the frog of someone—he can't help it. Dumb and forgetful, curly brown hair. Big, curious eyes. Those eyes...

He goes onto his knees too, and their eyes meet in a silent question. He whispers, "What is it?"

"A heart."

He blinks. "Oh." Just quietly. Just softly.

They're both silent again as she squishes her hand around in the disposed paint, her other wrapped around the cracked paint bottle. She holds it carefully, keeping it safe, keeping its crack from spilling more of that rich, strawberry red luster—the one Lyla so adored, so begged him to buy when they went shopping.

Nibbles takes his face into hers again. She doesn't need her hands, doesn't need to move to call him. And he watches, eyes big and soft and brown. "Um... you did change. It's—It's... you..." Splutter. "You bought... colors... a-again."

He blinks.

"I... guess I did... huh."

Quiet again. Nibbles continues toiling with her heart that just won't come out right. There's a bit of a spark of annoyance in her eye, so she looks up at the big sunset sky and back down at her blob of paint, and tries some more.

When she's satisfied, she gets back up. Gently cradles the broken paint bottle, very gently. Wiping her hands on her jeans, one at a time, in a color that will surely never completely leave again, she pulls from her pocket a bit of lacy tie, and works it around the crack.

It holds. She hands it to Camofrog, who mutters a soft "Thank you..."

They smile together.

She doesn't ask. He doesn't ask her to.

She just takes his hand, and takes up his bags. And he lets her.


	69. Not Without Me

Not Without Me

It all started when Fauna wanted to visit the town of Butterfly. Why? Because she wanted to go to the coffee shop. And now... what kind of tortured soul says no to her?

Jay nearly crumples the cup in his hand. He's staring blankly at the wall in front of him.

She asked Freya first, of course. Because she's _Freya_ , and they're _inseparable_. Right?

But Freya couldn't take her, or... she convinced Fauna she couldn't take her. She convinced Fauna to convince someone else to take her, and they convinced Jay, because Jay's a pushover and they know it.

He nearly takes a sip from his cup and stops. It's... still pretty hot, isn't it? He eyes that stupid mug, how he wishes it was one of the paper kind so he could feel it crush in his hand. That would... that would be a nice feeling... ulhhhhh.

Here it is. The bluejay with the doe, that sweet oh so sweet doe, sitting side-by-side, she spinning about some in her little spinny chair up by the front of the coffee shop, she giggling so sweetly, smiling so happily... the girl of his dreams, _right there_ , and she's _still taken, don't forget_.

Then he considers tossing the mug into the wall, watching it shatter, the coffee sizzle and steam as it drips down the wall of the little cafe.

But that's not very nice, is it? What does Brewster have to do with Jay's personal problems? Nothing. Not really. Dang it. He pulls at the sleeve of his shirt: it's long, goes up to the tips of his wings. Got some sports logo on it, he doesn't know. Sometimes when he looks at Fauna he wishes he wore what he really wants to wear... some nice button-down. White, preferably. Or a graphic tee with a band... or music, _something_ on it. Or a button-down, he loves button-downs.

He's trying to hide it though. And his lack of athleticism and his fierce, fierce pretending to be it confuses them, easily hides his true heart and true feelings.

So he waits until it's late... and sometimes he'll stay up all night, just to play his instruments when he knows they won't hear. On that night when it started snowing... he opened his windows, kept his door cracked just a bit... just to imagine if others could hear it... if they'd like it... if they'd...

Well. That was too risky. Now Lyla knows, of all people. But... well... she's nice. She cried with him. That was nice. Not Fauna, but it was nice.

And Deli's cool, too. Pretty chill, pretty soft. The way he looks at him sometimes makes Jay feel like he knows exactly what he's thinking, but hey, that's really coo—

"...aaaaaayy..? Jaaaaaaayy..!"

"Ah! F-Fauna?" He swerves in his chair so badly he nearly does knock over his mug.

Her caramel orbs meet his. A tiny Fauna smile replaces her worry. "Ehehehe... I'm guessing you missed my question? Um... I was just talking about the weather here..! Heheh..."

Shining eyes. She's so happy to be talking about the weather here, isn't she? Jay smiles softly, asking her, "Yes? And what... about the weather here?"

Oh, gosh. Help him.

"Heeheee~ Just... how _warm_ it is here..! It's so close to October—at least... Brewster mentioned that... and yet it's so nice and warm. Eheheheh... completely unlike Wherf... uh..."

His awkward shaking of his head cuts her off. They don't... need to draw attention to themselves. Oh sweet Fauna... you poor thing...

She shakes her head back, slowly, uncertainly.

Jay coughs. "Ah... yes! The, uh... the weather's really nice here."

"Eheheheh..." And there's her little smile. She nods, happy. "It's soooo nice. I'm sure Keke must love it here... heheh. I don't blame him for not visiting very often... but... but I do miss him. Heh." Her head tips back, wondering. "Was the last time... Valentine's? Yes, I think so..." Slow, slow nodding. Her smile is small.

Oh gosh. She's talking about her boyfriend.

Ohhhh goooshhhhhhh... whyyyyyyyyyyy...

He blinks, staring hard at the booth in front of them. His wings shake a bit. "Why..?" Cough. "Why does he visit so hardly... if he loves you?" If he loves her... oof...

"Um... because it's dangerous. Eheheh." Her eyes cloud, forehead scrunching. "But, ah... I guess... well. Before all that... before we moved here... before everything... Freya, and Keke, and me... and Bruce, too! We lived in a small town further away from here. Ehe. Freya and I wanted to move somewhere smaller together... just us, you know? We wanted to start our own town... and Bruce—we thought about asking him to start it up and run it with us... to be like a _mayor_ , something I guess...

She blinks slowly, carefully. "Um... After that... well... a lot of things happened. Keke... was going to come too... but—but then... he decided he wanted to be a musician I guess... and he didn't want to stay put... and Freya didn't think it was a good idea if I went with him... h-hehh..."

Biting her lip, she looks down.

"O-Ohh! Ah! S-Sorry! I don't mean to... u-ummm... open up o-old wounds or... or any of..."

"Heh! No... it's alright. Don't worry about it, Jay..."

He leans closer to her—and his heart pumps in his chest—and he wishes it wouldn't—because what if she hears it? Gaaaah. "Aw, Fauna... what's with the long face? Um... y-you're really sweet, you know... and you shouldn't have to be all sad like... like that. I-I'm sorry."

And she turns toward him, too. Oh gosh. Their faces practically touching—his bill—her muzzle—oh, oh gosh. "Thaaank youuu. Eheh... I-I'll be alright... I have Freya... I-I think... I don't know if she's doing well, either..."

Slow smile.

"Uh—ummm..." Oh, he doesn't know... "Fauna! I-I just want you to know that...

I love you, I love you so much, and—"I-I'm here for you, if you need anything... i-if you'd like."

Him looking away, and the little smile on her face.

"Eheheheh... Thank you very much, Jay..."

It's obvious, then. It just... kind of hits him.

Fauna... she's helpless, isn't she? She can't move... on her own. A blind follower...

W-Well. That's okay. That's... a-a-alright to... him.

And that's when his hand stumbles backwards and the mug falls off the booth.


	70. Oh Darling, Now Tell Me

Oh Darling, Now Tell Me

Far north of the plaza with that big bad old tree, further north of the river even, heading slowly toward the train station, if nowhere else, there they lie.

Oh lookit her now. She's become some crazy gabbler... do old people do that a lot? Wait, why does that matter? Lyla's twenty. Er, wait—twenty-two. Wow. That was sad.

By her side is the flamboyant Curlos. He's got this nice plump hat on his head, kinda like a beret, and... an overcoat. Well. He's always been one for weird fashion statements. Nothing new here. And then again the clothes do match, color-wise: goldenrod cap, and his fleece—fleece?—overcoat matches in highlights of it, emboldening to brown, to black.

She's forgotten what they were talking about. Curlos did too, obviously, staring blankly ahead, so it's all good. She goes, "So have I told you about my latest plan? It's—It just might be even better than Toy Day. And I dunno, that was pretty great."

Wait, no it wasn't. Nobody got what they really—ah, bother. That's just another reason it _will_ be better.

"Ohhhh? Tell me, dear Lyla, what shall it be this time? I'm rather curious!" She gets him smiling and that helps with her heart. He... He did get baking materials, right? For Toy Day. He and Deli both—no, no... He and _Frita_ both. Oh... They don't get along that well, do they? Was that a bad idea too... somehow? Maybe they didn't get enough, but if they worked together they would, but they...

 _Brrrk._

Lyla's fierce thinking nails her into a tree. "Oop! Ah! What was I—Oh, right!" She runs her fingers over her face and, spluttering, continues. "I was thinking... I mean, it's spring again, or something or another, right? Well... what other spring-y holidays are there that are super duper fun?"

Curlos throws another blank.

"Awww, come on! This was always my favorite holiday!"

Worry. Confusion. Another flash of worry for the poor girl who wouldn't say that about Halloween, Toy Day, Easte—"Oh, the one with the bunny? What was that... Easter? Bunny... Day?"

She blinks harshly. "Noooo! Curlooooooos! Duuuuude, this is the best oooone!" She pouts for a moment there. "Okay, okay. I'll give you a hint: feathers."

"Lyla." Curlos stares at her very harshly, or as harshly as his sweet brown eyes go.

"What?"

"Don't tell me."

"Dude! Finally!"

"Please don't say it."

"Fessstivaaaale~!"

He slowly turns around and walks into a tree. He shoves his hooves in front of him, into overlapping disapproval. He pouts into the bark. He is _not_ happy with this change of events.

Lyla's head tilts and falls. "Ahh... sorry. You don't like that holiday..?"

Curlos is silent. He doesn't want her to take it the wrong way, and he doesn't wanna come out as rude... but, like... "As aerobically provocative as it is, and as... fun... as it is to gather feathers from the flower-filled sky... I mean—Lyla! That bird is _not nice_!" There is no better way to say it! Pave is _just_!

"Yeah, but! But! But!"

"Do not say 'he is a bird', Lyla, or I will disown you!"

"Disown me?"

"From everything! From me, from everyone else, from the world! It'll be so bad, man! Don't make me go there!"

And there he is. Shouting into a tree. Cutting his lip on sharp bits of bark. Oh, Curlos. What has it all come to?

Quietly Lyla giggles. "Okay... okay. Then—Then... if I manage to find... a Pave suit... and wear it, and we call a Festivale... a-and, I dunno... I buy some feathers, or steal some from Jay and Lucha or something, and we collect feathers... or something... uh..."

"Hey, Lyla." The sheep turns back, smiling softly, slyly. "Don't overwork it. You don't have to go that far. I don't think anyone cares. Besides, uhh... aren't we still sort of very out of money?"

Lyla nods. Her face says oh.

"We could... I don't know, make it a bug-catching day... uhh, or something... and if you want, we'll go get you a freaking Pave suit from whatever part of the world that would come from, and... we can have fun." He smiles a little more.

The best part about Lyla, he deliberates, is her childlike emotions. So easy to please. So easy to help. So easy to make such a difference to.

She's a li'l sweetie, come on. Trying so hard not to be disappointed in that old Lucha, trying to see Julian to no end of the day from the moment he arrives, just sticking her face into the hole that is _this town_ and trying to reach into it, trying to pull out their disgusting, ugly secrets... find some light in them.

She's so stupid... so, so stupid.

So when she looks back at him, and he keeps his back turned to that tree, he tries to smile a little, for those big, dark eyes looking into him. Those black, bruise-like bags hanging beneath them, her pale, patchy skin and small, quivering grin... for all of it he tries to do something.

Too far. She's gone way too far.

But hey... it's because of her that Julian's so chill and fun to be around... because of her—and _him—_ that Curlos himself... that he's... he's...

Lyla moves off. The moment shatters.

"Hey, look! Curlos! What's the train doing here?!"

"Ah." He smiles awkwardly. "I have absolutely no idea. Let's go find out, shall we?" So they go.

As their train comes screeching to its halt, as it ends, as the one person steps off, as he begins his reign... Curlos catches a glimpse of his face—and he winces. Dang it, Bruce. Stop showing up out of nowhere. All the time. You—You used to _hardly_ make an appearance... dang it. Bruce. Bruce...

The tall, curly-haired boy in question turns over to smile right at and right through the sheep. A very large and well-knowing smile, in suggestion that they've been good friends for a long time.

Well. There was a time... but that time is long gone. Just... look at that boy. Ulh.

So after that occurrence, he goes right off and plants a big tannish hand on Lyla's shoulder. And he says, "Hey. Your present's not here yet, sorry. But it's coming very, very soon. So let's keep waiting."

Her big awkward grin meets Curlos's. They kinda stay like that for a moment.

And big, tall Bruce pulls the girl away.


	71. Please do you See

Please do you See

"Would you like to hear a story, Lyla?"

He's all clandestine now. Voice dropping octaves like kids skipping stones. But... But stones aren't very deadly... and his fingers have squeezed very tightly round her shoulder... oh, gosh. For some reason Lyla's getting a bad feeling about this.

Oh. There's a stone. It's in her throat. Duhhh.

She smiles very widely, the whites in her eyes showing, at the grass beneath their quick-moving feet. She's practically being dragged, now isn't she? Oh fun. How... How fun.

A hand flits up to her face. She rubs at her nose.

The flower petals continue their fall, slicing across Bruce's tanned and freckled face, across his slim, pressed smirk. His eyes have narrowed to but slits, his glasses jostling with his walk. She notes that one of the lenses has cracked; she decides not to ask how that happened.

And he's still looking. Dark and pulling, pulling eyes nearly touching, his breath glancing upon her, nose practically nudged against. How do they walk so quickly with his face so—so close? Man... he's so tall, too...

"Well?" Voice but a flick of the wind. "What is it? Of course you do, don't you?"

Lyla blinks. Slowly. She leaves her eyes closed, breathes but slowly. "Yeah. I like stories, don't I? Sure. Of... Of course I do."

Bruce's stories actually sound terrifying, like old war anecdotes back when everyone hated each other for all kinds of reasons that changed with the season—and all kindsa things were spilled. You know. Tears. Blood. Hate. And the more she lingers by him, their foreheads so nearly touching, noses just glanced off one another, her eyes big and bearing and his so small and shady, the more afraid she becomes.

And why not? This... _boy_.

"Once upon a time," he murmurs, stops, adds, "this story starts with a 'Once upon a time,' because it was beautiful. Once upon a time. Like a fantasy of sorts. Now, the only question is..." His little freaky Bruce smile stretches across strangely angular cheekbones. "If you'll believe me?" Pause.

She like... what? "Um! We-We'll see!"

"Good." He leans back in, a little closer this time. "I hope you do."

Then he pushes her onward. They pass on behind the town hall. His fingers crawl along her shoulder—and suddenly—squeezing—squeezing—squeezing to a halt. Her knees buckle; she stops. Deep breaths. Oh, heck. What has she gotten herself into. Heck.

Hey... if he needs reading glasses, why is he always shoving himself into her face? Oh. Wow. She hadn't thought of that...

Bruce's lips come undone. Their line of perfection smears; his forehead crinkles. "Once upon a time. A very, oh, very long time ago... there was a girl."

"Are you sure?" She stares, her gaze loosening on the guy.

"Oh, yes." Bruce nods, serious. "I'm very sure. There was a girl, and some would argue she was one of the best girls in all existence. Of course"—the grin smears a little more—"that's not possible, now is it? Everyone is full, oh, full, of horror. Disgusting little pieces we all shamefully try to hide from each other. We call it perfection because it _looks good_ , makes us _feel good_. Or maybe it's a safety issue, mmh?"

She nods. Slowly. Transfixed.

Bruce trots one way, then comes back the other. He's got some freakishly fine loafers on today. Nice and clean and brown. Man, where do his fashion tastes come from? Oh... hey... she glances at the festive little vest he's flashing today. Red-and-black. Plaid... there's a tag.

Her eyes center on that tag as his do on her. "She's just good at controlling herself in front of others. She's not perfect, she's _lucky_. Haha. _Lucky_. Psh." He rubs at his nose, eyes rolling. "Well. This girl fell in love once. She was still young, and she was still oh, so, _hopeful_..." He doesn't lacerate the word—no—he stabs it, punctures it, leaves it out to flog. And he smiles afterward at his masterpiece.

Fingers on his thumping chest. Like the feelings inside of him just come right out, like a rainbow after a storm, each time he thinks upon it: beauty, light, _hope_. Oh geez. Lyla's kind of lost some of the conversation by now, staring so intently at the vest's tag, trying to jog her memory... think of where she's seen that kinda thing before...

Finally the vision cracks; a hand extrapolates, twists with a chestnut curl atop his head. "She was so lost. Poor, poor girl. Oh, she thought, she'll say—oh, she _thought_ he was a nice boy. And maybe she was right." The smile returns. "Once upon a time.

"But is she right any longer? Oh... oh, I wonder. I wonder if she stays up at night, a new name to add to her list of sorrows and worries, lines and lines to try and drown out with harsh punk uppity music... and I wonder when she'll face it finally. I wonder if she'll ever stand back up, or if she'll let herself be consumed... ahhhh." His lips pucker, those glassy brown eyes of his shifting to the girl. "What is that?"

Tugging. Just a bit of tugging on his rather fine vest.

" _Lyla_." He snorts. She wasn't listening. Ah, figures the idiot wouldn't bother. Maybe it'll push her through the last of her own misery, until her gift finally comes... until... finally...

Quietly the girl asks him, "Why do I recognize this tag..? But... but not very well. Ughh. I'd know if it was the Abel Sisters... I think." She glares at the tag some more, the specifically-tailored tag to be in the shape of a rather fine giraffe. "Bruce, you can't afford designer clothes if you live on the train, right?"

His grin returns. "No, you cannot. Not unless you have expensive friends." He wouldn't call them _friends_. But... well.

Gracie hates him. Every time he arrives she yells at him to make it quick, to grab the clothes and get out already.

He'll hand her the big, golden coin... he'll take his choices... and sometimes he will stay to talk. Not... like... she... has... choice. And by the by, it's fun to torture her with that fact. Jaxk isn't hers, oh, oh no.

She tells him that Jaxk isn't _his_ , either—that he can't even pronounce the name... but now he has more income to spend at her useless price. Because... well, look.

And he does. At that girl. That _stupid, forgetful, idiot_ _girl_. Who brought her? Who's the reason she's here? Huh? Huh?

"Bruce... are we going somewhere?"

"Ah. Yes we are, Lyla. I have... a _friend_ to visit. Heh... and I think you need to come with me for this."

"Uhh... okay." She just kind of shrugs, just kind of follows.

All the way down, all the way down to Freya's sad little punk fortress. The music will blast, the singers will scream, and still, her castle walls have already tumbled, leaving her at the pit of the wake. Poor, poor Freya. Oh, poor darling.

They knock. Bruce's smile grows strangely cheerful. Lyla tries to remember if they were friends or something.

The knock retrieves a voice, somewhere deep within the house.

"No... no, no! You're not coming in!"

It's muffled between some sorta fabric, probably the walls too, but they hear it clearly despite all of this. Bruce is smiling. He nudges Lyla, asks her nigh soundlessly to ask for the wolf again.

Knock. Scream. Call: "Heeeey! U-Umm... Freya? Can I come in..?"

There's a cry. There's a _no_.

Bruce reminds her to let her know she's alone. And it's very, very important. She's scared, she's hurt—anything will convince her, so long as it's dangerous.

So Lyla slowly nods, and feeds these lines that were fed through her into the ears of the wolf. There is hesitant walking, and minutes of waiting, and finally the door creaks open—just a slice.

"Boo," whispers the boy—yanking the door open—plowing himself in—forcing it shut behind him.

There is another cry, a yell, a slap across the face and another yell after.

Lyla takes a step back. She's shaking. Her fingers glide seamlessly along the nape of her throat. She bites at her lip, taking another step back—hungrily. Moving, moving, hearing the hushed whispers and the _laugh_ , that _laugh_ , oh, if she already couldn't sleep at night... o-ohhh...

 _Shhhk. Shhhhk. Shhk—shkk. Shhhk... shhkshkkshkkshkkshkkshkkshkkshkkshkk—_

Running. Running. Eyes wide and empty, head running out of thoughts.

She doesn't know what she saw and she's terrified to find out.

Lyla runs into a door on the way out of her escape. She falls. She mutters something about hating being stupid to herself. Stupid, stupid, stupid...

And then she remembers. Frita tried once... Frita failed.

There is no escape. There is no real escape.

She sinks further into the porch, head in hands.


	72. In a World Locked Tight Like a Jail Cell

In a World Locked Tight Like a Jail Cell

Her soft brown eyes cut across the area. Once it's confirmed empty—or at least empty enough—she plops herself down upon the little railing on their cobblestone bridge.

Getting late. So it's safe here. Late enough that people are settling, falling asleep. Besides... Freya hasn't been around much lately. And if Freya's not around, then what are rules anyways?

Maybe that's bad practice. Her boyfriend always listened, albeit grudgingly. Yeah, but... Nibbles clasps her trembling hands, glaring sharp eyes into the burbling water below her. Because of course, it's the fault of the river. _Duh_. Well—no. No... come on...

She bites into her lip. Rests her head into a palm.

Her long-sleeved clothes bunch around her.

And what were the rules of being out alone? Being out at night? Being out _alone_ at _night_? Go to bed, she'd say, go to bed where you belong, warm and snug, at least away from a slit of the damage. Night sucks because it's hard to see anything... so easy to go lost off the trail, blearily making your way around the place... alone... _alone_... shrouded by big dark blackness at all sides... ullllhhh..!

Nibbles has eight younger siblings. What is lonely, right? Wherford took a lot of getting used to, once she'd moved from the house. But her mom thought it'd be a good idea—after her dad coaxed her into it. Because she'd needed the break from all that responsibility, she could do with a bit of change...

And being her allowed her to find _him_. Camofrog. S-Sure... she can't remember her original reason she loved him, now... but there was something. And that something can't be swallowed up by the messiness of the world, can it? You paint so much on your canvas but either way, there's always canvas beneath it, and that hard sense of reality doesn't go away. Doesn't matter how much paint you slather on it.

Is it bad to put your core, your hard sense of reality—your anchor—on a boy? Another person? Just as flawed, just as hopeless as you?

But she..! Nnnnnngh..!

Nibbles stays there for some time, wallowing in her angst and self-pity and thoughts, thoughts, thoughts. Thinking about all kinds of things, mostly Camofrog.

They didn't break up... which is wonderful... but... does he have a point? No—No, no way! No way...

 _Clip... clop... clip... clop... clip. Clip... clip..._

She swings around and nearly lands herself in the river, screeching, "WHO IS IT AND WHAT DO YOU WANT WITH ME?"

"Uhhhhh..?"

From over south.

Oh. Maybe Frita saw her out here. Their houses are pretty close anyways... at least, that voice is deep but not masculine deep, tough but not lowly and scarred tough. Burly in a sense completely unlike the word. And friendly, always, and with that weird lilt of high-pitched lightness to it.

"G-GO AWAY! LEAVE ME ALONE!"

Another call in turn: "I THINK IF YOU'RE TELLING ME TO LEAVE, I SHOULDN'T!"

Drat.

But... yeah, that's Frita. Well at least it isn't that stupid human girl...

Trying to be Camofrog's friend... h-he doesn't need friends, he has _her_... And she doesn't need friends _either_. Who needs friends when you have eight younger siblings all rowdier than you? Keeping her feelings bottled was a harsh but necessary result. And she's fine... she's _fine_...

Because that's normal and totally not trespassing on personal space, the sheep casually lumps herself onto the bridge's railing beside her. She leans forward, feet drooping into the water. Just gently splattered... gently. "So what the heck are you blubbering about now? Oh—Camofrog, is it?"

"Shhhhut up." Nibbles's face crumples like a ball of paper.

"Mmmmm. So I was right, uh?" Frita snorts. "You're so easy to read."

Nibbles's face flushes. "N-No I'm NOT! I-I-I HIDE ALL OF MY FEELINGS! AND NONE OF YOU WILL EVER GET TO SEE THEM! E-E-EVER! BE-BECAUSE FRIENDS ARE STUPID!"

"Oh, no. You're not an open book at all." Her goldenrod hoof bats the air. "That one sentence alone has yet to reveal to me about your insecurities and... oh, I don't know, big serious issues you're pretending to downsize." She blinks in the semidarkness. "Also, you're _not_ mad at me." A smirk glides along her soft brown face.

"I-I HATE YOU!" Her tiny fingers clench into fists.

Frita has yet to register how serious this poor little pipsqueak is trying to be. "Uh huh? Love you too, darling, love you too."

"NNNNGH!"

 _PwaaACK!_

"DUDE! OW!"

 _PWACK! PWACK! PWACK! PWACK PWACK PWACK PWACK!_

Eventually, a burst of unbalance sends Frita into the river.

 _KER-PLOOOOOOOOOOSSSSsshh_... _OOOOOOOooosh... ooooshhh... shhhh..._

That surely does miracles for her temper. "OH MY GOODNESS! WHAT THE HECK IS WRONG WITH YOU! CAMOFROG IS RIGHT! HE SHOULD'VE SERIOUSLY DUMPED YOU! YOU ARE A FULL-ON COMPLETE MESS, NIBBLES! ULLH! IF I WAS DATING YOU I WOULD'VE DROPPED YOU SO LONG AGO!"

The thought of that sends a chill down Nibbles's spine.

"NOOOOOOOOO! HE-HE'LL NEVER, NEVER NEVER NEVEREVER LEAVE ME, AND YOU ARE SUCH A HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE PERSON FOR EVEN THINKING HE WOULD! UGH! Y-YOU DISGUST ME! YOU KNOW, THERE'S A REASON I HATE PEOPLE!"

"WHY BOTHER WITH ME OOOOR HIM IF YOU HATE PEOPLE?"

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!"

"JUST MOVE AWAY AND FORCE YOUR BOYFRIEND TO GO WITH YOU, HUH? OH WAIT! YOU CAN'T! IT'S IMPOSSIBLE TO ESCAPE _THIS_ , ISN'T IT! ISN'T THAT RIGHT!"

"GUUYYYYYYS!"

Well. If the neighbor from the south was disturbed, it's only expected the neighbor from the north would be too, by now.

And there he stands, in all of his magnificence. Arms outstretched, great sparkling blue fur illuminated by thin strings of starlight and the river combined, his oversized tee-shirt parachuting outwards with his posture, night mask strapped to his head, jumbled up in his horn.

The girls learned that day that Julian wears surprisingly short shorts to bed.

He slams his body together in retrospect of this choice in fashion, and his great blue shirt collapses over this.

Okay, what is he? Nibbles stares at him accusingly. A teenage girl?

After the initial shock wears over, the trio expands into a scene of whispers:

"Why are you both yelling? It's late, you know."

"Yes, we know. It's just that Nibbles is an idiot and now I'm sopping wet." Punctuating that, Frita waddles out of the water, landing with a _plopppcht_ on land. She messes with her soaking fur, a disgruntled look painted over her initial bemusement.

Julian mimics this. They both look then at Nibbles, who sits there, arms crossed, tail fluffed out, long-sleeves bent and sprayed in water about her.

"I-IT'S NOT MY FAAAUUULT! AUUUUUHHHHHHHHHHHHGGGH!"

The unicorn tilts his head. "It's adorable that she's thinking this way, wouldn't you say? I'm getting quite the sense of pity out of this."

Frita giggles. She doesn't have a chance to add to Julian's statement before Nibbles explodes further.

"NOOOOO! STOP IIIIIIT! UUUGH, I HATE YOU! I HATE PEOPLE! I HATE EVERYONE SO MUUUUCH! HATE, HATE, HATE! AHHHHG! LEAVE ME ALONE!"

The two share a meaningful glance again. Frita's hooves have moved to her hips. Julian's smirk is so wide his face seemingly splits in two. They cough to disguise their laughter, and they take slow steps toward the squirrel.

Together they force all of her angst and all of her agony into one big—wet—hug.

"Ohhhh you poor thing. We're here for you. Mmm-hmm?" Julian whispers, not unlike some sort of mom, swaying a bit in the embrace.

Nibbles is trying to fume. Trying.

She later comes to blame it on how notoriously _liquid_ this hug of theirs is. Because... it'd be embarrassing to admit.

The first thing she thinks of to ask, quietly, calmly, is "Why?"

"Because," Frita murmurs, "because something's changing. In all our hearts, I'd like to think. And that includes you. Heh... all of our sad, stupid, sucky problems... the whole squad. Er—Julian. You feel it, don'cha?"

He nods. "Yeah." Pauses. Blushing. "My reason's a little lame, but yeah, I feel it. Heheh..."

"Lame reasons aren't _really_ lame!"

They chuckle softly at that. Slowly, hesitantly, they release the squirrel from their rather large grip.

She watches them. Bemused. Confused. Worried, for sure. She's... all over the place. A lot. And she's been lying to herself a lot, hasn't she? And... And to Camo, too. O-Ohh, Camo. She loves him, loves him...

Nibbles sniffles, rubbing a sleeve over her nose. "I'm, uh... sorry. I'm sorry for... a-a lot of things..."

All that emotion comes bubbling out all over again.

She cries.

They stare at her. They share a look. They let her cry, don't move.

She tells them she's really bad at a lot of things, like a _lot_ of things, but she knows she loves Camofrog and she knows she has issues and she's sorry. She'll try to be a better Nibbles, who will look back on this day and think of how far she's come—one day—but... but that day is very, very far ahead. And she can't do this on her own, can she? N-No. She's so... st-stupid! U-Ughh! It's... the _worst_...

"Well," mutters the sheep, "you're not the only one. Wasn't Lyla planning some other stunt of a holiday? Yeah... Festivale. Right. That. Uh. You should ask her about it, when you see her next. Because... you see...

"She's stupid too. And... for some reason, somehow, she makes stupid look good."

Shrug.

Julian nods. "Yeah... she does, doesn't she?"

Nibbles tries to do something, anything, other than cry, but she can't. Not yet.

Deep breath.

She whispers the first thing that comes to mind: "I-I hope _I_ learn how to make stupid look good... t-too!"

The unicorn raises his hoof and slowly, subconsciously rubs at his nose.

"Oh, I'm sure you will. She's taught all of us a lesson..."


	73. People Filing Amok

People Filing Amok

They all came to the plaza. Hung up a few leftover scavenged streamers. Just a bit of pink with the flowers in the sky. They wave, almost like hands—a little like the branches in the sky, from the tree they're attached to.

Nobody knows where the feathers Lyla's gathered came from, and nobody asks, because who knows just where that is—and who actually _wants_ to? For the majority of their little Festivale, she stays in her tree, in the Pave costume they don't question how they convinced the Abel sisters to sew for them, and she tosses her feathers.

It's a stupid, simple game, and that's what makes it perfect.

The shadows droop like teardrops, hanging from her face. They don't fall—they never fall—but they stay there, and they hang. When her eyes flutter, and she loses focus, and she slips from her spot on her tree, there is a moment when the light hits her face beneath the hood of the onesie, and it dazzles along her.

Her falls are never fatal enough to knock her out of commission.

Lucha tries his best to watch over her, but he's also Lucha. So. His assistance is doubled with his albeit annoying best friend, and the fluffy yellow dog they all love and adore, oh, sweet Issy, and they form some sort of group to keep Lyla from hurting herself.

There are shadows beneath the bird's face, too. Little trains of traction down his cheeks not unlike tear stains, not unlike hers. Deli watches, with worry, without acting. His face forms into a bit of a grimace.

Sweet, sweet Isabelle, bless her soul, can only focus on so many things at once: her angry Digby, her poor Lyla, the music streaming from the background.

Dancing. Like flowers from the earth, reaching, reaching for the sky, failing and withering and blooming all the same, fighting for their survival, the skirts flow, the coats stuff with breadths of air, any and all costumes float in the gathering breeze. Air plucks at their bodies, toys them over, steers them about, sends feathers galumphing along winds and far, far away.

Alone lies the faun. There is music, and attached to the music will arrive her dearest, eventually and soon, but other than he she sticks out starkly in the plaza. Her eyes are big and sweet and wide, her fur sticking up in places. It's a cute look, even so, poor dear Fauna in the midst of her strange loneliness, until her prince comes in. Only it's him, only he, and he alone.

Like strings, they stay connected. Tied within the unfolding of the dance, of the motions. From further along watches a certain bluejay; a squirrel and frog in rather clashing sweaters stay on their lonesome, just quiet, their words pushing near-silently to and fro. Nibbles stares, curiously, at the girl in the Pave suit, and Camofrog speaks of her sadly, face grave, lines carved into the moist skin.

"We all grieve for who we've lost," he whispers.

Brown eyes wide, she nods. "How... long gone?"

A sigh. _Hhhhh_... "I don't know. I've been busy with a lot of things. Very?" A shrug punctuates his words.

His lips purse in thought; she stares up wondering to the tree and the girl in it.

Feathers wave smoothly through the wind: confetti, almost. Psh. This isn't a happy party, though, is it? She means... it's... it's all a gift, wrapped up in bright paper. On the outside, feathers, bows, sparkly afterthoughts: within but a knot buried and swallowed lies. Her fingers knit together, twiddling, as if she's the one holding it. And she's trying, but can it even come undone?

The sheep dance together, but not _too_ together, because they don't share anything, not even oxygen.

But Julian... well. He has yet to learn what exactly a "personal" space is. Like, whaaaat? Why wouldn't you? Guys, it's a freakin' dance floor!

Let's celebrate.

A finality follows their motions.

Their three collective pairs of eyes draw for the tree. Solemn moues come upon them, but Julian can only stay that tiresome for so long, and that sort of breaks up the sheep.

Although sometimes a glance is tossed again in that general direction. The light that returned to Frita's eyes flickers when she turns.

Keke, with his old, faithful guitar, with his slow-moving eyes that hold in collective pauses, with his soft murmur of a voice, paws tight when they reach the hooves of his sweet little doe... He surveys silently, Fauna held close. Her smile is inquisitive, and yet faulty all the same: she doesn't see it. She never does... oh, his poor lovely dear.

A paw lifts from her side to the air... resting along the edge of the tree. Upward, lifting into the sky, into the tangled and slow regression of branches. Like hands they reach back toward him; a slight scowl uplifts his face. Still his fingers weaken around Fauna's other hand.

When she looks upon him, he turns, offers a tiny Keke smile. She warms, nods in turn. He merely blinks and searches soulfully back into the world.

The dark slits of pupils of his settle upon the faraway bluejay. His paw weakens further; the scowl upon him shifts. Jay's eyes nearly come in contact with his own; until he blushes, stutters, and stalks off again.

Any present joy in the snowy white dog's lips crumble off, sloping, falling, falling into slush. Digression marks up his brows, sharpens the pupil, harshly exaggerates his high cheekbones.

"Keke?"

There is a sigh: sagging release ensues.

"Keke... are you happy to be here?" She speaks feather-soft, feather-gentle, and feather-lost; the wind is rather strong today.

And Totakeke himself will be that wind. With a swallow, and a nod, and a final squeeze of that hand, he whispers back, "Always, dearest, always."

Please don't forget that, okay?

They watch the tree. Slimy, shady, bleak, black, they watch its brave and strong silhouette, like a soldier from a once-prestigious and beautiful war. And then there is the birdlike girl flitting about within it. The feathers fall from her fingers, taken by the wind wherever their souls go, never to stay put again... and there is such shadow in the face of that girl.

What a shame. She seemed like such a lovely friend to make.

Ah well.

Keke leans into his dear's cheek, softly leaves a kiss; his fingers slip from hers in the process.


	74. Stupid, Disoriented

Stupid, Disoriented

Like a hush falls night. Dropped like curtains as the stage comes down with its resounding crash of applause... as the scene melts away, as the cast comes out and takes their bows.

Their smiles are proud, although disappointment lingers at the end of the show. Their hearts beat fitfully for an encore, but the scene has ended, the play is over, and next week they'll be cheering for someone else.

Curtains flicker like fire; the night sky sits above without its moon. All is quiet, very dark.

Keke walks toward his little stop that he likes to take, just in the middle of Wherford, by its one and only and very poorly-made bridge. He doesn't sit this time; a wave ripples along the others. Some of them follow his suit. Fauna, otherwise, takes her little seat as she usually does, right at his snowy white feet.

Her grin is as happy as his gaze is sad. Oh, Fauna... darling.

In the end, most everyone had come with them. Well... all but who were already missing. He has to tell himself and clench his fist to keep from turning around, to glancing at the one house streaming with light now, the one housing that poor, poor wolf.

Well. Isabelle's not here either. Something about that "brother" of sorts of hers thinking it time for bed.

Honestly some of them look asleep standing in front of him.

A few raise themselves, as if to offer a song, a thought, as they just kind of stare at him, but he waves a paw and summons a breath and assures something about how he's singing the song tonight. This one... this one he... he has to do. If he doesn't... w-well.

Keke lowers his head, and tries again to summon his courage... but it seems he's lost it somewhere... well, too late to go looking. He may as well begin already and hope it rejoins him eventually.

He knows... oh, he knows he has to do this... it'd be wrong on so, so many levels if he let it all stay the same... Come, o Wind... breathe upon the earth and free them of their problems, with your bluster and strength you must peel back their fears and regift them their glory, may they realize they remain inside of these brittle, old shells.

"Today," he whispers, trying to go fast, but he can't go fast, the words speak with their tune and this tune today is not of speed but slender, sloping syllables. Oh... he swallows again. "Today—or... well, tonight I... there is only one song I would like to sing. Please... bear with me. And excuse the—the conflicts this may pose for some of you."

Ah, great. Only the frog is a bit cross. And he'll get over it. Besides, he always looks a bit cross. It'll be alright.

"I call it a few things... um... like, well..."

Oh, save him. If three meager syllables won't crawl up and out of his throat, then what of the tune: what of the song afterward? And this song, oh, woe is he if he can't get this out of him! Softly he coughs. Coughs... coughs.

"Only Me. I call it... Only Me."

The bird stirs. Well good. He better be awake by the end of this.

" _Oh... not me, oh...  
Please... please don't go...  
Oh, not me, oh...  
Me... oh why me?"_

May these dreaded words return to memory the dreaded things he has done. May this demanding song return to memory the demanding things he has forced upon them—upon _her_ , truly. May these desperate cries find her, and tell her everything she needs to know. Come on... come along.

" _And oh, oh! please don't go...  
You're my darling, Fauna—  
Oh, oh! please don't go...  
But you won't leave,  
Only me."_

That makes the bird's eyes go straight wide. No, his version didn't have a thing to do with the girl, now did it?

Keke lifts his heart... his soul... come along, now... come along...

" _Oh... not me, oh...  
Please... please don't go...  
Oh, not me, oh...  
Me... oh why me?_

 _And oh, oh! please don't go...  
You're my darling, Fauna—  
Oh, oh! please don't go...  
Tis as I plea,  
Only me."_

He catches that girl's eye—the one further back, hands about her knees, the Pave costume slumping about her.

They're dark now, not unlike his.

He's nervous now. Can't seem to look away. Pauses, searches, continues, again, without his courage. Her eyes just stay... so sad, and dark... and... a little creepy...

" _My, daaaarling—  
Ohhhhhhhh...  
I love you,  
Always know-ohhhhh...  
Whyyy must we all go?  
Oh, Fauna, please don't go...  
Toniiiiiiiiight..._"

He breaks away and takes in his breath. Just a little more...

" _Oh... not me, oh...  
Please... please don't go...  
Oh, not me, oh...  
Me... oh why me?_

 _And oh, oh! please don't go...  
You're my darling, Fauna—  
Oh, oh! please don't go...  
But you must see,  
Only me...  
Only you, please,  
Only me...  
But you must leave,  
Only me..."_

One final look at his darling girl, one long, harried breath, and he departs into the night.

By some wonderful, horrible luck of Jaxk's, the shadows fall perfectly, and he all but disappears, leaving her behind... oh, far, far behind...

Fauna, big eyes and all, takes one long, long look at the place she last saw her ex stand, and she tries to get up, perhaps to run after him, she doesn't know by this point: and she slowly sits back down.

Kindly her friends disperse, leaving her almost—almost alone.

There is still a jay. A bluejay, staring hopelessly at the befallen maiden, her arm laid helplessly in front of her for things she can't reach... much too far away... o-on so many different levels... But he—but he...

Oh, curse that stupid dog! Leaving her deserted—truly, truly helpless—eyes wide and frightened and... and... settling upon... him.

Oh gosh. He did that... on purpose. O-Of course he did—didn't he? He did that... on purpose.

Eyes big, and pleading, and asking for once a question of her own mind, of her own needs and hopes and all kinds of things... she takes a small, crawling step toward him.

Jay's face is so red. He doesn't wanna talk about how badly he's shaking—o-or the state of his perhaps snotty perhaps... perhaps tearing face... by now.

But he takes it, takes that darling girl's little hoof and pulls her to her feet with him.

He ends up taking her to his house together. And he shows her his instruments... and she stays very close to him.

…

"Wh-What? No! NO! THAT—THAT'S CRAZY!"

"Auhhh... er, Isabelle, you may wish to lower your voice before your own comes in and scolds you for not only being awake but having snuck outside, too."

"K-KEKE! KEKE! C-C-COME ON, NO!"

"But I must. I must. I cannot... stay attached like so."

"YOU LOVE HER!"

"Yes, and dearly, and never shall I stop, but I must. I truly... truly must. I am sorry if my choices disturb you, my friend, but I assure you that our friend upstairs, old Jaxk, finds them rather well-done for whatever it is he's letting go on. Destroying the mind of a human girl so that his pawns are freed..."

She manages to calm somewhat. "But... but... st-still..! Nnnf... S-Stupid Jaxk..."

"Yes, yes, I know. It's strange how we watch her broken soul... but no matter."

Isabelle mutters something soft and sad.

Keke smiles very slowly.

"I think it's good. She had so much bad baggage attached to me."

So on he goes... and on she watches... as the curtain of night falls yet again.


	75. I Don't Care About Them

I Don't Care About Them

She doesn't care how it happened. Doesn't want to, either. All that matters is that he's gone: that's all her mind can hold by this point. It's like a glass, fragile and cracking, spilling with water in the grip of her shaking, pink paw, with lines like tears, like mascara stains dripping down her darkened fur.

And oh, how she cares less—she truly couldn't.

For once in her scratch paper life, she breaks her own rule, and she leaves her house at dusk, and she sits by the side of the cliff. Her feet, bare, snuggle into the sands, and she stays like that. The air greets her like a kiss; she tips her head, as if listening to its intimate callings.

She rubs at her stained cheeks. Stained with black, like tears, or perhaps mascara stains.

Her paw comes back, a bit of black layered atop the pale pad. Lip goes hiding beneath a line of teeth. Her forehead scrunches all over again.

Worry. Stress. Pressure, pressure pushed carbon into diamonds, but trash only catches aflame, perfection but slips behind the cloudy shade of rain, raining down, down, down on the travesty that is she.

Freya sniffles, then swats at herself.

She shifts uncomfortably in her leather jacket. Her fur prickles along her arms. She's in shorts, too, these a nice black denim, ripped at the edges. They look edgy, punk: comfort for her. She wishes she'd done them herself, a little bit, instead of buying it tailored. A little bit...

 _Shff... shff. Shff, shff, shff, shff—shffshffhshffshff!_

Freya darts in place, splattering sand, sliding some down the hill. Stopping, panting, turning heel and glaring into the dark of the night. Shadows swarm along her once-peachy silhouette, cheeks stained, fur salted, night a crescendo painting her figure.

Her heart pounds. Her head pounds harder. Her eyes throb. Just in the corners. Fists form. Pant. Pant. Pant. Pant.

 _Kpp kpp kpp kpp..._

Head tilts... applause?

"Wow. I've never seen a reaction rate that fast... and rather accurate too, may I add."

Her heart freezes in her chest and her knees lock until the creamy-brown face forms from its hiding place. White fur laced along him, teasing amethyst eyes, turning like stones, glittering with the answers to her questions. A smile tugs gently along his lips.

And then her voice freezes too. "I—umm—A-AAuuuh—

"I-I-I thought you were—"

"Yeah, for a moment there I thought you were _him_ , too."

So casually busts through her words. Freya's cocked fists fall to her sides and unravel. Her head rights some, then tilts a little more.

Deli's own eyes flicker over her... What do they see? Confusion? Cunning? Oh, dear, no, not curiosity, right? Please, no. Don't let him think that—

The smile twitches. "So what are you doing out here this late? I thought you were the one who told us it was dangerous?"

"Ahhg! You—Deli!" For a moment her headache evaporates, fingers snapping back into fists, ready to fly. "I—ahhhh... I... uuhm..." Although they all know she'd never use them. Again they unravel, again soundless words knit along her forehead. "I... w-well."

Her eyelashes flutter, orbs falling to the earth. Freya stiffens beside herself. Her lips purse, tail flicks, she tries again to raise her head, force herself back into her mold, her beloved punk piercings, to what she loves, what she'd love to be—but that... that _look_. It just pierces right through her.

And down go her eyes. Down goes her tail, down goes her head, down goes she. Like wings her fur flutters in the wind as she falls, down, down, down, a nice little halo of black cresting over her tipped figure.

Deli sits. Just—just casually. Big, gaping wonder within those peculiar eyes of his. The pupils tuck into hers.

Oh gosh.

How long as he known? How long has he—just casually— _seen_? A-And _what_ , too?

As if he sees this—and for all she knows, he does—Deli's lips flicker, big eyes widening a little more. "You can stop now." Slowly, softly, fingers outstretched into the sands. Palms out, digits only justly folded, soft, as if cupping into the air, cupping up toward...

Freya's lips twitch. She blushes, turning back. She shifts some in the sand. _Srrrh—rrrhssssshh_. Ultimately she doesn't exactly move. There his hands lay.

Their gazes connect again. Her slits of gold, his cut hues.

She mutters something that sort of comes out like "No."

"Yes." Deli's grinning now. A little excited. A little hopeful—he's showing it now. Whatever it was he had in his heart, eyebrows raising, a bit of color flecked to his cheeks.

"You don't."

Cough. "I do."

She flutters back from his grip. Her heart seizes. No. No way. No. Shaking her head, mouth pressed in a wrinkled disbelief.

"Freya... oh, Freya. Stop pressing that weight so far down on yourself. Heh...

His own eyes flicker back then. She glances back toward him. Big eyes, big oh on her lips. "I've seen it for a long time... but it took much longer to work up the thought to say a thing of it. Heheh—you see... I don't have much of a gift in this... physique of mine"—his eyes slit, mouth thins: almost into a mask of cruelty—"so it's infuriating. To see all these things. To never..."

Sigh.

Freya blinks.

"You don't."

"I do." The grin returns, with a gallant roar.

Pause. Quiet now, scooting closer, tail wagging in the air. "Freya—now may I ask... do you?"

She stares at him for a moment.

This... boy. He... there's no way—but nobody ever—and he—but she!—auuuuh..! For some reason Fauna forms in her head, her sweet best friend... and the dog by her side. Oh... beauty has been found in worse.

"You're shorter than me." Okay. The first—and only—thing that came to mind.

He gives her this _look—_ eyebrows raised, dubiously, lips curled. "You care?"

Another word passes between them: her face, reddening, his cool and soft, colored... only further brightened by her increasing silence.

Finally, a sigh: the drawbridge slams into the soil on the other side. "No. I don't. Not really." Besides... it's, like, three inches.

Triumph in his eyes.

The hands, gently, raising, cup her face, and pull the girl closer, closer—until, with a sense of finality, their lips meet... eyes close.

Moments pass... time elapses... he pulls, back, just a bit.

Her whisper: "Why? Me— _why_?"

His in turn: "You're smart. Dazzling... and I must admit, your punk undertone is the most attractive. But..." Deli's lips curve again, lifting closer to her ear. His voice lowers just a bit more. "I think it was that beauty in your heart... the weight you bear so proudly... your strict sense of mannerism... honestly, that's what drew me in."

"A-Ahh..." She looks away again.

Deli's... well. He is sweet, really. And thoughtful—obviously. Lax in... the wrong ways. Oh, gosh... how many times has he broken _the rule_ at night? Without telling a soul, without belay... it must be lonely.

She considers thanking him. Instead asks, "Why, if you like me this much, would you break, so constantly, my—"

"Well." Soft tittering. "I don't know. I have trouble sleeping at night... and I grew bored. It's nice going on strolls when you're actually awake, I guess. And it was fun, messing with Freya's rule. Made me, a little hopeful... the one day you'd notice. Get mad. I could try to talk you into submission... psh...

"I never thought I'd see you in such a perfect... heh..."

Glancing back again.

Freya glances away. Then back, then gone again. She sighs—loudly. Her paws slowly curl about his chest, tugging into his sweater, the soft scarf draped about his neck, so soft, warm, and she pulls him closer again, gently kisses him.

They stay there together for some time. Upon the sands... just talking quietly. About a lot of things. Hobbies. Family. Their dearly painful best friends—the innocent darling Fauna and... well, does Lucha even need an explanation? It's silly. There's laughter freckling along the sky of that lonely, dark night...

Eventually the topic of _she_ arises. Neither of them quite recall where it came from, but it does, and Deli's face sours some.

"You know... we're letting her do all of this to us. Letting her fix all of our problems with that perfect idiocy of hers, and in payment we watch silently and let her mind rot. We're killing her to bring us back that... that _purity_ , that _hopefulness_ we've never had in so long...

"It's pitiful."

Freya sighs. "It... It is, isn't it?"

But they say no more, and they stare into the sea in front of them. And like a seed, the thought is planted; only does it ever sprout..?

There is a girl out in the tangled fingers of this night. It's not merely them, not merely two alone in the brink of blackness.

Third time, they say, is the charm.

Freya raises her paw in the sky, and wonders, quietly, if tomorrow night there will be a moon. Wonders if poor Lyla will finally lose it by then... but... but... all the same... e-even so...

The monkey by her side, gently pressed against her, smiles so sadly at the thought of such a thing.


	76. Only Naught but Thee

Only Naught but Thee.

 _Thmm thmm thmm thmm thmm thmm_...

"Okay... okay." Nodding. "Best idea. Best one I've had, like, ever. I bet so."

Running, running, out of breath, out of time. Her fingers shake with each motion.

And as the curtain cuts off, another dawn arrives.

Freya raises to a morning without a second of sleep upon her. She feels better than she has in... years. She doesn't even know how long. Doesn't want to think about it. Oh, no, not at all. It's been five or so years since she moved to Wherford with Fauna, but it's... Wherford _itself_... it's like it's in its own little world... one she feels the cusp of its edge has finally been revealed.

Relief.

She snatches the hand of the monkey beside her, rubbing at his eyes, and steps near her house. Then the thought hits her.

"Oh—oh—OH NO."

"Um... Freya?"

"DELI. I—AHH. G-G-Gosh—Bruce—Bruce is here."

His eyes grow steely, lips tighten. "And?"

"I—I—don't know where he is."

Her voice squeaks with that last word. _Iihh-hhs_. Like a hiccup.

"Well." Deli winces. "I guess we'd better go find him."

Like streamers the sun's light shreds across the earth, the sky, and the characters running pathetically through the stage. Knocking on doors, finding those awake—forcing—go—go—go. She takes her best friend by the shoulders, stares into her weepy face, and—for the first time since she can remember—tells her that she can't listen to her problem right now.

Something about boys—about Keke leaving—about Jay.

"Okay, right, Jay—Fauna, we have a problem and it has nothing to do with this and we're going right now."

 _PON PON PON._

Deli doesn't stop to doff his head after Camofrog creaks open his door. He's got a big grimace on his froggy face, but taking the look at the monkey drains the color and leaves him blank and worried—not to mention the addition of Lucha over his shoulder, equally angsty. With a shout over his shoulder, Camofrog goes off to his girlfriend, knocking frantically, and then they dart to Frita's, Lyla's, onward—Deli in the meantime dodges for the unicorn's bright blue home.

"AUUUGHH! DANG—DANG IT! SHE'S NEVER HERE! NOT WHEN IT MATTERS AND NOT WHEN IT DOESN'T!"

 _GRRCCHHHHHH_.

They leave Lyla's empty home with its hole kicked through. For good measure, Frita yells and kicks it in after the frog, then goes bustling after them. They pick up Curlos after, who gives them this look and comes right out.

After circulations throughout the town, picking up Isabelle and Digby, the great group of animals goes charging. A sound—soft—like feathers in the air—nails into heads, louder, louder, until finally its occupation is revealed within the plaza.

Their problem resides within a tall, brown-haired boy, chainsaw in hand. The thing is biting their tree. Like, shredding it open. It's tilting, crying, swaying in the air: the whole deal.

Lucha yells something very incoherent, Isabelle falls to her fluffy legs, and Freya nearly blows a fuse.

He halts, just for a moment, pulling a hand out from his handiwork, waving toward the wolf—then back to his task of sawing open the tree.

Okay. They never particularly _liked_ that tree. No, not at all. But even with its regression, that thing is a beast, and it's gonna take out some great margin of the town if it falls that easily.

But he has a chainsaw. And if they get close... well. _Bruce has a chainsaw._

The wind picks up on the other side of town. Clad in naught but her tiny white dress, hair in frazzled curls, eyes big and open and empty, the girl tears through their council, up those stairs, up Isabelle's bed, through the window, and up that too, until she stands with her bare, pale toes on the roof.

She turns some, looking, nodding. Her motions are slow and steady, like that of precision—her eyes suggest sleepwalk. The smile really, really doesn't help matters.

Fingers out, shaking... Lips wide and open, softly laughing... head in hands... breathing hard, hard, hard... blush crazed up and down her cheeks.

Sway, sway—release, collapse into the shingles.

Puppet, strings cut.

"BRUCE! MAY I ASK—WHAT—YOU'RE D-DOING!"

 _BRRRRRRRRRRHHHHHGGGGGGGGGGGG_

"BRUCE! BRUCE STOP THAT! IT'S RUDE, VERY VERY RUDE TO USE YOUR CHAINSAW WHILE I'M TALKING TO YOU! BRUCE STOP IT! I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS!"

 _BRRRHHHHGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH_

With a shriek, Freya's hands go to the sides of her head: "BRUUUUUUUUUUUUUCE!"

Somehow that does it. With a smirk along his tanned face, he halts, glances back at the wolf.

He waves merrily. His words are all yells within themselves. "Hi, Freya. Ah—have you finally gotten over me? Well. Good for you. Although I would've preferred it if you came with me... ah well. Life isn't a jar of candy."

And on goes the chainsaw.

 _rrrrrrRRRrrrrRRRrgghhhhHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR_

Bits of wood have clawed down his unprotected face. Bark, like freckles, dots all over his cheeks. There's spots of red, too, mingled in there, and a bit of swelling about his right eye. The other lens in his glasses has shattered; the green rims hang like a corpse round his neck. His grin sends hearts all circled about him in tizzies.

Camofrog's face ripples. He steps up to the wolf, and yells in turn, voice throaty:

"I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS GUY!

They all look at him. He shrugs. Mutters something like "Didn't know what to say."

Julian shrugs in turn, taking a few tentative steps back. The drive of metal in bark is spewing wood all over the place... He grabs the first hand he can—a hoof, happens to be brown—and pulls them back with him as a spray splatters just where they stood.

"A-Ahh! C-Curlos!"

"Julian?"

They stare, wincing in unison as the little faun beside them takes a golf-ball-sized chip to the forehead—or, well, very nearly does, until a blue-feathered body steps just in place at just the right time, and the thing nails his chest.

Then Jay winces too, and all of their winces mingle into one big pule together.

They pull him back, as well as the poor shaking girl.

Winds pick up in speed, tossing the girl on the roof left and right and left again. A slow sense of reality crawls into her pupils. Blink, blink—slowly, along with this recognition, her cheeks begin to pale. It's... cold... up here. The winds whipping at her slay her hair back and forth, sending her dress into _quite_ a whirl. She can't hardly keep standing and quickly tumbles to the ground again.

Her face crumples. There's a scrape along her forehead, but her hands go to her heart. Breathing heavy, hard, hard, hard. Panic steadily grasps her hand around her.

As it becomes more and more palpable they can't exactly stop the guy—his accuracy—precision—terrifyingly spot on... the wood chips, not to mention, on top of that, that they don't have any sort of weapon... Rocks—immaculately tiny—bunch about their feet...

Lucha pauses. His bill tips, and he squawks—"WE'RE MISSING SOMEONE! WAIT! WAIT WE ARE TOTALLY MISSING SOMEONE! THAT'S NOT, THAT'S NOT, THAT'S NOT..." His eyes dart, big and worried.

"ERRRR! I COULDN'T FIND LYLA, SO I KINDA LEFT HER HOUSE WITH A BIG HOLE IN IT! BUT OTHERWISE—I MEAN—SHE'S NOT AROUND!"

A few collective gazes gather upon the frog.

Freya finally stops holding back—and— _PWAAACK!—_ right across his face.

"YOU ARE AN IDIOT."

A couple small groups of three—one toward the southern part of Wherford, the other for the top. She's around here somewhere...

Oh, goodness. The lines again spring upon Freya's face—she's put down her weight but... but... oh, no... what if that awful boy was just a distraction for—and then she yells the name of that idiot girl as loudly as she can.

The northern group, after a few good minutes, running, yelling—one of them just happens to look up and cry, "SHE'S—SHE'S ON THE ROOF!"

They assemble about the ground. Isabelle falls to her knees again, Digby's eyes glistening.

Slowly Lucha takes a look at them, then one for himself. He sucks in a breath, the wind tousling him about, and slowly opens the door to the town hall, and files up the stairs, and reaches the window.

"Come on," he's muttering, "come on, come on, come on..." If he doesn't do this... if he doesn't do this... ohhh, he may as well be _heartless._

It's as the latch creases and swings— _CRRHHH—_ and he crawls up the shingles— _BURGHH RURRGH—_ in scratches and thoroughly messy by this point... that his dark eyes find her big and hopeless and terrified pupils. Shoved into the shingles, scratches caked along her... fragile, shivering... He begins his steps toward her.

A moan, long, hollow, open, splinters through the tree.

Finally it reaches its descent.

 _GggGGUUURRRRRRRHHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhh..._

 _KEWWWHHH—_

 _PWWWHHHHHHHhhhHHH!_

All kinds of thing splatter with the fall of the tree. Chips. Leaves. Flowers. Shingles.

A girl, pale and painted with her red blood and pink cheeks, tips off the edge.

A scream. Just one scream. Echoes of it, hauntingly rotating like some sort of twisted chant, go on and on and on, long after the _THMMP_ of her body hitting something hollow somewhere far below.

But as much as he looks... as far as he crawls... as much as he yells her gentle name... all he finds is a black stain along the oak.

Gone... Simply gone.

Lucha covers his eyes.

"Lyla... Lyla... Lyla..."

 **Lyla's gone! Buh buhhhhhh!**

 **You can imagine Lucha's reaction, I'm sure... well, as well as everyone else's... Bruce tore over their tree, it cleaved right through the town hall—which Lyla just so happened to be on the roof of—she fell. She landed somewhere mostly unknown.**

 **And she's just... gone.**

 **Has anything else had a freakish disappearance in the story? Come on, it was a long time ago but I'm sure you remember!**

 **Now the real question is where she went, isn't it? Bum bummm...**


	77. Once Upon a Time

Once Upon a Time

Isn't that how all happy little fantasies begin?

Once upon a time... and once upon a time, there were four of them. Two boys, two girls. Their ages were particularly near, the youngest boy and youngest girl of nearest range. The oldest dominated by a good few years, and the second dominated the other two by another good few.

They grew up together. A nice town, a small town, like most. They had to take the train if they wanted to go shopping, and it was a twenty-minute drive. Kind and old friends, their parents, the four came together whenever they could. It just sort of happened with age, with connections... just sort of sprung together. But once it happened, it was meant to last.

Once upon a time.

He finished high school first, and she followed hardly a year later—it took eons of unending study, but she wanted to, had to, needed to—yearned for that moment they could leave their small town together. Of course, he was the blunt idiot who didn't quite notice, but that was okay. He waited anyways. The plan was a doctor. Or maybe a lawyer. He wasn't sure yet—but it had to be one of those careers that take the most amount of years, because he couldn't wait for college. Or the idea, at least.

The two youngest were forced into further study and further work, because they didn't want to be left behind either. And then _they_ waited too, for them. With all that time upon the same projects and homework, growing in knowing themselves, their hobbies, what they love and don't love, they grew to know each other more.

He sang songs for her. Strummed them upon his guitar. Humming, tapping a pencil on paper, foot on the floor, everything was music for him. And she adored that, loved that piece of him... She was soft, and sweet, and handy, too. Could stitch up anything good as new.

It became obvious before it happened that it was going to. And it was—he asked her out, and of course, she, cheeks pink and rosy, accepted. Once upon a time, there was beauty in their love... like roses they bloomed out of ashes and dust... it was expected by their two older friends, not to mention everyone else, that they would be married within the year.

College was upcoming... finally their little quartet was readying themselves. Next summer, they told each other, ready, jubilant—and next summer it would be, once upon a time.

Then there were five. They didn't know it, nobody knew it, but then there were five. The fifth took like a needle and stitched within the heart of that music-singing dog, and searched within the depths of his heart, and took his needle like a sword to it.

He became restless. Couldn't stay in one place. Wanted to travel the world—sing his music to everyone. It wasn't just his girlfriend and a few others every once in awhile, no, _everyone_ had to hear his voice. A chemical reaction shook him to his core; his soul couldn't stay put any longer.

Like a ghost the white dog disappeared. He wanted to take her with him, thought it, tried it, but the others got so mad... it was so bad... so he left on his own, never, they thought at the time, oh, never to be seen again.

Only, as spring drew near, they realized that he had left something behind. Something small, so simple, just a bit of a note on paper, scribbled all along the margins of his hand-crafted sheets. The musical notes were smudged with all kinds of things—his paw-pad—his brisk writing—his... tears?

Come, it read, come, come, come with me, please... save me.

Of course the eldest decided, seeing this, that there was no way he could go to college for twelve some years with his best friend in such strife and turmoil. He told his parents, and they kind of shoved him off, like, well, of course you should go find him!

He asked she, the other oldest, to come with him.

She could hardly believe it. Golden eyes so wide, heart thumping within her punk black clothes—yes, yes, yes.

And of course it was decided that poor darling Fauna would come with them.

They were led from train to train to train, until they found themselves within the nestled confines of an old apple orchard. Cobblestone sat in one encircled corner of the place, and there a sapling had been planted not so long ago. Perhaps—from their friend?

A two-story home sat in the upper near-corner. A tile bottom floor, the top even with some nice little beds, and a roll-out cot as well. He took the cot, the girls the beds.

Sometimes it seemed like their poor friend was but inches away from finding them again. Just moments... like he stood out there, and then dissolved—truly like a ghost, like he was dead or something. But... he couldn't be, right?

They spent some few weeks in the old orchard.

The eldest, he called it "Wherford," jokingly, because they don't know where they are, and "ford" is such a stereotypical ending for town names. Might as well, right?

It brought a few precious smiles to faces.

Summer had gone and passed, as had college entrance forms. But being this close spurred their hearts, made them think, just another day, and they'll find it. They were able to purchase food and watering cans and the like to keep the plants here going and keep themselves going too while they were at it. Nearby town.

As autumn approached, and winter seemed just on the edge—Halloween arrived first.

It is around this time that the youngest of the three began to cling closer to the others, her eyes big and helpless... as if terrified of the mist that clung to their town at all sides.

The older, she began to experience rather harsh migraines. She used to complain about it, but they couldn't do anything about it, and as Fauna's reactions decreased over into her own little world of clingy thoughtlessness, and Bruce to his task at hand, Freya kept them to herself. They got worse. She didn't tell them, tried to hide it... but oh, they hurt...

She asked Bruce, then, if it was really safe to be here, if maybe they should give up and leave. She was worried, worried for all of them. But he merely tossed a hand, muttered something about oh, they'll be fine, they'll figure it out.

They talked at night, while little Fauna slept and Freya steadily took in more and more of their responsibilities, her headaches only increasing in magnitude.

Bruce, I don't want you to die. I... you're—you're very wonderful.

So nearly told him how she felt... oh, how she felt...

And he'd merely shrug it off. Every time. Freya, we'll be fine. Don't worry.

But... Bruce...

A bitter seed had been planted in his own heart. When Totakeke lost himself, the boy grew bitter, angry with this loss—angry with the voices he began to hear, especially the one who taunted him with how weak he was... how easy it was for him to lose his old, dear friend.

He overexerted himself daily; for the most part they managed to stay in groups. Together. Didn't grow lost in the mist, didn't lose themselves... not like Keke, she'd tell him, not like Keke, okay? But only when Fauna wasn't listening, the poor, poor girl... she had such a warm and yet blank face...

Freya herself could feel she too was losing something important, that something about this place was... deadly. Her headaches would spring out of naught but the air itself and pillage her of her senses, her hope... she would breathe slowly, hand on her forehead... and she tried, she tried so hard... but at the same time...

Eventually the boy went out at night. Fauna slept. Freya wasn't focusing. Head hurt. Oh. Head. Hurt.

He never came back in the morning, when dawn struck and the cot was empty, and—just like—just like Keke, he was gone too.

That was all it took. One night. One night, all on his own, and the thing that took Keke had found him. The bitter seed so deeply planted into his soul was forced into bloom by this fifth. He took him in stead, took the tall boy with the reading glasses and the overly-heroic exterior into his hands.

Days passed.

They found a note on the front of the door, one fateful morning after his disappearance. Small, simple, not unlike the one they had seen that brought the four into this world in the first place:

You should've come with me. Come along. You still have a chance—follow me, come with me, into the darkness... on your own... join me, join me.

Freya's hand went to her heart. Covering little Fauna's eyes, she took the note, tore it, and tossed it into the dawn. She didn't even care. He wasn't... that was... ulh!

Her headaches worsened. She took her fears and worries and the words Bruce had tucked into her heart, and she held them. All to herself. Kept Fauna just a little hopeful, she confined to a losing war, but that's... okay.

And another few days later, there were houses. Just simply pressed into the earth, so pristine. So... wordlessly put. A few sparse furnishings decked out the homes, enough for the two to realize that they had been specially made, specially formed.

They took a train, once, out of their horrible town and attempted to leave. It merely swerved round, through Butterfly, the box of places in the middle, an empty lot further out, their own town.

It was Bruce who named it Wherford. So she called it that: hopeful, hopeless, fearful, fearless. Empty, really, in the end.

Eventually, as Isabelle moved in and took their to-be town hall, and a few other homes made themselves known even before the villagers arrived, the lot became its own little town. Marsh. Called it Marsh... a nice place. Made Freya feel helpless, looking at it.

Once upon a time.

Oh... once upon a time.

Beneath the layers of story and lore, within a whole other world entirely, shadows and trees and old dirt roads crisscrossing like braids, a curly-haired human trods, not unlike the boy who once walked this same path.

Her head rises to the encompassing stars—the big gaping moon, and she whispers, "Oh, goodness... where—where am I?"


	78. In a Land Far, Far Away

In a Land Far, Far Away

"Nnnf..." Lyla's fingers go back to her cold cheeks, to the dust and the dried red and all kinds of things etched upon her skin. Her hair must be in such tangles... the thought of it puts a grim set to her face. You know, of all things, she always managed to comb her hair, because it was always quite the mess, and thinking about it treating her back so unkindly doesn't suit to her taste.

She can't help it. She's Lyla.

There's all this shadow and junk coalesced into this... this _world_ here... yet at the same time she sees, if not feels, that there's a light up ahead. That if she keeps going she'll find something. Or something. And, like, if there's a light source, well, duh, you go for it. Light will illuminate all of her scrapes and bruises, and the strange, _bad, bad_ feeling she has about her creaky back; and at the same time it addresses her woes with bandages of hope. A bright, warm thing. Like feelings—good feelings—warm fuzzies.

The wind blusters about her. Lyla's eyes flatten, lips pursed together. She stays like that until it ceases at least some.

Her final moments in Wherford flicker into memory again. It's a bit spotty, but... she—yes, the roof of the town hall. She was... she was pressed up against it, and the crusty old shingles rubbed her the wrong way, wind was everywhere... and then the tree.

Careened through the town hall perfectly, split if not in half then close to it. That... _sound_. An abyss of moaning. The cry of wood, spliced into its new home and ripped from its old. Now... wood is without control. As in, the tree. People mold it into their own desires. They cut it when they want to. Keep it going when they don't. Pluck its leaves, prune its branches, pick its fruit. It must be hard, being a tree.

Lyla stops again, thinking about that for a moment. That cry as it fell and bludgeoned half of the town, surely, demolished some homes, demolished the town hall. Lucha... the last she'd seen of him, he'd been on the other side of the roof—oh! That dear, strawberry red bird... he was right there when it happened!

...did he fall too? Was he—was he hurt? What if the tree _toppled on top of him and—_

She covers her face, breathing heavily.

Such thoughts sicken her. She's reminded of Isabelle, whose mouth would run and run and run and chase away her fear of silence, only to bring up the first things that come to mind like a broken record, begging Lyla to describe to her _what happened to Camofrog that night_. Lucha's creamy white face comes to mind, those dull dark eyes and his particular grin or pouty frown. It's cute... he's so silly. And it's in such a way that he never means for it, which just... ahh!

Blinking, she realizes then that she misses him. Misses Lucha. And Freya, and Fauna, and Deli, and... everyone else.

Lyla swallows. Her cheeks still cool to the touch, she feels as if she is burning.

Betwixt the hollow sliding of her bare feet, a voice sprouts. Soft, echoing horribly about the place, feminine—

"Lyyyyyylaaaaa _aaaaa_ aaaaa! Thaaa _aaaann_ k you _fffoooor_ rrr theeee leeee _etttteeeerr_ rrrrrrrrrrrr!"

Her heart stops. And then she stops too.

Without thinking she cries: "TWIGGY! TWIGGY? TWIGGY, IS THAT—"

Yes, it is. She feels it. She knows it. Lyla doesn't know anything but oh, she'd recognize that sweet canary's tune of a tone from anywhere. Sh-She swears. Lyla, head thumping, pulls her tired old body into a run along the path.

 _Pthpthpthpthpthtphtpthpthpthpthpthtpthpthpthpthpthtpth_

"TWIIIIIIIIGGYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!" Breathless, oh please, pant pant, pant pant.

A branch snaps beneath her feet and the voice returns with a gallant soar. " _Llllllll_ yyyyyllllaaaaaa _aaaaaaa_ aaaa!"

"AAAHHHHh!" She nearly stops running, then starts again, shaking heavily. "SHE HEARS ME! SHE HEARS ME SHE HEARS ME SHEHEARSMEEEEEEAHHHHHH!"

Oh, gosh! People never, never hear her! This is—oh, heck! Maybe it's just at the speed she's trying to run at and the weight in her lungs but oh, there are tears in her eyes!

Lyla yells out a few other nearly-incoherent screams, in the vain hope that maybe this conversation can go on a little longer. She's getting this choked-up knot in her throat.. rubbing at her eyes, nose streaming fitfully... Twiggy, Twiggy, that beautiful canary from Marsh, such a dear girl, dear friend, oh, very dear to Lyla. They made jokes and she has the actual best boyfriend for her, ever, that big bear Teddy who wore all the suits and read all the books, super classy. She recalls... Twiggy wore all kinds of clothing, mostly tie-dyes and jeans, and they were always saturated in paints.

Man... Twiggy's the best...

Her throat catches again, and she has to stop. It's getting too hard to run, to speak, to cry at the same time. Lyla folds into herself. She crouches toward the earth. Her curls amass her.

The light is much brighter here.

Only... O-Only a little longer. Maybe, maybe Twiggy will be there. The instinct inside of her thinks oh, no, there's no way, but what's a life without a little hope? Maybe... she'll see her. And... they can hug. And stuff. Or something. Anything, really. Lyla's pale body quakes with apprehension, her heart beat, beat, beating in her skull.

Here it comes. Here it comes. Oh, the marvelous light...

Deep breaths, Lyla. Ready yourself.

Somehow she manages the smile.


	79. There was a Kingdom

There was a Kingdom

The clearing's brilliance practically multiples after she steps up to it. Her nerves act up. Lyla steps back from the small three-stair case leading up to the bit of a platform, like a stage. Only this stage is marked in a nice, cold tile flooring, and made snug with a fancy carpet in its midst.

A voice, and the motion of a body, comes to ear. She steps further back, into the knot of trees and branches and leaves. Squatting, she stays there for some time in wait.

No footsteps. Just a murmur of a voice, speaking softly to themself. About what, she wonders? The way the voice rumbles makes her kinda wish she was in on this conversation. But no. She stays. Gotta... gotta wait.

Gosh, Lyla, for once in your life use some common sense and take your time! Like—Examine the situation!

A cool calmness enters the stage-like area with the—the boy. Human, dark luscious curls draping along his head. His red-and-black-striped jacket crisp and well-fitting, snug as usual. Dark pants. Hey...was he wearing shoes before? She stares curiously at the pale white feet on display. Tries not to move.

He pulls back his sleeves, making a great long show of it. Those dark orbs flicker with mirth as he steps forward a little more, toward a table she hadn't really noticed before in the bottom-right corner of the stage. Oh, wow, what luck: it's in perfect view from her little tree hiding place. And at the same time, it should, at the least, be... difficult for him to identify her in turn.

Jaxk... that's his name. Instinct ripples upon her, and she licks her lip, consoling herself: do not say his name. Don't even try it. Not again. Not again.

Man, how is she managing? This is great...

Big, dark blue eyes watch the table from her spot. She notes that it's got tiles on it, like the floor, only these are alternating white-and-black, like... like... _chess_ , right. That's what it's called. No, not checkers, she's sure of it. But the most peculiar part is not his choice in style: rather, the items on top of this piece.

His smug little grin fingers with the clay formations upon it. They're all the same white porcelain, but it's a nice silvery hue, and it looks like a nice kind of clay, too. Or at least one he favors. Expensive, perhaps? She can't remember. She was never all that good at art.

She holds her breath as Jaxk's long, slender fingers pick with the clay. There are all kinds of formations made out of it: a short little cat, and a large one further off, a dog, a giraffe, another couple do—oh. Oh, hey... is that... Isabelle? She blinks, staring harshly at that fluffier-looking one, and, oh, yes, that's Isabelle. And... the other two dogs: Keke, Digby.

H-Huh.

A couple shallow breaths, and she holds it in again. Alongside the pieces there is a great big circle made of flattened clay—like the outline of one—about the most of the table, and a smaller ring of a circle within. The smaller contains Isabelle, and Digby too, and the outer holds most of everyone else. Only those two cats aren't contained by it.

In the midst of all of these there is a box. A simple one, open at the top, and not very large either.

Jaxk neatly takes the figure of the smaller cat and smushes it into a ball, and smushes that into the box.

Lyla's breath goes out with a hiss.

For a second there she swears she heard a cry, a soft, high-pitched whiny little girl cry, and she recalls that... the figure crafted from that clay—she... she recognized it... somewhere... oh...

The other cat stays put. After examining it for long enough, Lyla can safely determine that it has to be Rover. Outside... oh—um... is he... outside of... of...

Is that even possible..?

W-Well. A-Apparently it is.

Her breathing grows a little wheezy as she searches into the rest of the figurines, trying to see faces in these clay masterpieces. They're... They're so _finely_ made. Oof...

Oh... oh, hey. There's the pigeon who owns the coffee shop in Butterfly. Beside him, that owl with the museum... They're situated, and their figures appear virtually untouched for some time—like Isabelle's—except they're not in the middle circle, just the outer one. Like pretty much everyone else.

"Mmmh." Jaxk's sudden use of his voice strikes color across Lyla's cheeks, like flint to the flame. "Oh, Digby... would you _stop_ meddling with me? Why do you always sneak back to Wherford while I'm not paying attention..?" With a disinterested sigh, his thumb and fingers mesh into the figure, plucking it back into the outer circle, squishing it into the chessboard's marble top. "I don't care if Bruce gave you however many coins. It's annoying when you keep doing that." A thin smirk.

His glittering eyes go back to the lonesome Rover, out all alone. "Do I really need him to keep leaving? I suppose he can do as he wishes, as he always comes back... and it's always good to get one of the pawns out into the real world... Ah, yes, I suppose so..." Fingernails tap, one by one, into the marbletop. Jaxk's brow furrows.

"Ah, why bother. He can stay out there. I have enough of them in Butterfly anyways..." Sigh. His fingers relax. "Oh, now _was_ it a good idea to rid of Marsh? My box and their Butterfly and their Zoosis only have so much room... and they all avoid Wherford like it's so, so scary... mmmmh.

"Well. I suppose it was the right one. It's tiring, seeing all, what, twelve of them going back and forth, Wherford, Marsh... yes. And if they continued, well. It would rather ruin my plans, now wouldn't it have?"

His gaze flickers up from the table, directly into the trees. A thin smile trickles along him.

Lyla stares at him with big, dark eyes. Slowly she picks herself up, trotting out from under her hiding place, out into the open and into the full view of Jaxk himself. His head tilts some; the grin deepens.

A strange, strange look trickles along him. His lips upturned so softly, so hopefully—so righteously. His hands outstretched just some, eyes wide and glimmering. Jaxk lifts himself up from the ground and floats over toward the girl, taking her hands in his, pulling her up close to him. His curls trace his elegant face, his eyes narrowed and wondering, and his lips press into hers, just a soft moment.

"Ah... finally. You couldn't possibly understand how long I've been waiting for you."


	80. With a Glorious King

With a Glorious King

Fingers cradled about pale Lyla's hands, he leads her with a string to the edge of the stage. Her eyes stayed tucked unto it, unto _him_ , and the smile never quite leaves itself from his amused face.

Gently he pulls their combined hands toward him. Presses his lips into hers. The eyes snap toward him again, her face rosy and pink. There is a great question lying within them: why, of course there is, she must be rather confounded, now wouldn't she! It makes him laugh, that color in her cheeks, the question in her eyes. Like stars on a night sky as dark as her face; and not only that, but they are stars he put into her himself. And that is always a nice feeling.

"S-Ss... aauh... Sir... um—"

"Oh, you poor dear, please, no need for that..." A musing look strokes his lip. "How about 'darling'? Yes, I find that perfectly suiting." Another ripple of laughter: such big, gaping wonder in her gaze.

Hmm... ah, the question: tell her now or later? He doesn't want to soil that precious, precious piece of marvel in her. Like she's something special now, and she doesn't understand a bit of it... ah, the poor darling... poor darling girl... Oh, he should tell her now: too much confusion is poisoning.

They go along further, his bare toes now rather close to the ground. Lyla has to stare for awhile at their marble road to actually see that there _is_ still a gap betwixt toe and tile. Her head sort of bobbles keeping up with it; Jaxk's soft laughter returns yet again.

She glances back into the swarming black fog of trees. Blush hues her cheeks. Oh, gosh, this is so confusing... b-but in a way it's kinda nice.

Yeah. Being kissed by a guy she hardly knows.

W-Well..! I-I-It's more than that! It... almost feels like... she's known him for a long time... or something... oh no, Lyla's turning hopeless...

Deep breath. Her heart summons its courage and leaps in her chest, and the question comes out again: "Da-Dar... ummm"—her voice drops sound, holds the word, mouths it—"c-can I ask what's... going on? I-I-I know... I'm stupid and blunt a-and stuff but... but I'm... really confused and... my head kinda hurts... um... j-just a little bit... If that's okay, um..."

Like a bit of sunrise, his smile shines down on her. "Of course. Please, ask away to the depths of your curiosity: it's rather enchanting." The smile softens. Fingers tug further upon her, pulling Lyla closer. "Anything you want—Now, ah, what was it... well..." He shakes his head; curls bounce about him. "It's... quite simple.

"You have solved my intricately-crafted puzzle, roamed all your way into it, and you have found my heart in turn."

Big, blank eyes blink back. Yes, because that's simple. Uh...

"Oh, Lyla. I'm sorry; that still is a bit dense, isn't it?" Soft giggle. His other hand traces over a cheek, pulling again toward her.

That last tug sends a shudder down her body, and the next time she looks up, there's this big old castle silhouette just standing up ahead. She blinks a few times. It doesn't go away.

Lyla's mouth pulls open, a silent gasp in tow.

Big, bold ivory walls, towers splintering into the tops of the misty sky from all ends. Ivy casually creeping about it like shimmery fabric, all kinds of polished windows, and those bricks that stack, stack, stack into their shining splendor... it reminds her oddly of a knight-of-old's armor.

Her free hand reaches into the castle as it approaches. Jaxk's grin only deepens, his eyes lowering. That great swirl of mirth remains undisturbed inside.

"Do you like it?" he whispers, tipped unto her.

His perceived response is a big bundle of nods. Lyla's eyes practically balloon to the size of her head. Those dark, dark waves of blue... such a strange and sorry shade of aquamarine... but, ah, there are downsides to each part of things, night for each day. And he must say that this one's sun leaves the shadows dying in its rays... Again his finger trails along her soft, pale cheek, and the grin dissolves for something akin to affection.

"Well. I'm sure you'd like to know, then, that it's all for us. Ah... my lonely halls will finally contain some level of warmth in them..." Jaxk's finger ends at the bottom of Lyla's chin. "I'm ready for that... I've been waiting for that, oh, for oh, so long..."

A kiss to her forehead.

They move on. Lyla notes, eyes narrowed some, that there's this... bluish figure toward the front of the castle, stationed to the right of the big double doors... there's something odd about it. Like... she swears the thing is alive—or—well—was, at least—oh goodness is he a ghost—but there's heat about him, and eyes that collect and falter. Crisp, simple clothing, rivaling that of a tuxedo without the luxury of it... ridiculously shined shoes... kinda like a butler of sorts? Oh... is he... uhhh, Jaxk's butler? Is—Is that even a thing?

As the two approach the doors, the ghost or butler of ghastly fire-like blue proffers out and pulls open the handle, and thus allows them in. Jaxk leads her with his hardly-touching-the-ground-toes up floors—without stairs—well—ghosts don't need them and neither does Jaxk—and down a final hallway with goes _pbbbft_ in a pattern of bare foot to tile.

Under his influence, she slows with him. Those dark and enchanting orbs linger upon her, his head tipped just subtly. The elegant, angular cheekbones to chin, so perfectly painted together under skin of a porcelain-like flesh, oh, how he stares, so interested in grubby little Lyla. She subconsciously rubs at the red scratch that happened on her nose.

His finger raises, gives a flick in the air: she finds herself rubbing at soft nose skin.

And the laughter again softly resides, the big wonder and confusion a sightly color on her face.

"Lyla, you're just whom I've longed for all this time..."

She glances at him. Then at his bare, pale toes. Back to his face. "Um?" Her fingers go to her heart. "You sure about that? Me?"

"Aaahahaha..." His fingers cup over her head. He softly pats her. "Yes... very, very sure.

His eyes glitter. His lips purse, leaning in closer—their heights so nearly match—l-like Lucha's too!—and he whispers, "Darling girl, you don't know how sure I am. Ah... There were few who Bruce managed to convince to move to Wherford, but it was palpable by the time they approached they were... well... _sour_ individuals." His lips twist; then they smooth over again. "But I found you anyways. What a wonderful thing...

"The fact that somehow someone came in the first place was a joy. But... I just had a feeling, yes, oh, Lyla must be the one. Unfortunately, Marsh did come an obstacle later on—but that's alright. It wasn't much work of extermination... ah, but by then you were shining... weren't you?"

Those big, dark, almost haunting eyes stare up at him. Her lips work on their own, struggling to grasp the word: _shining_. Again she carries that bemused look, the whole no-no-way... And he pats her again, leaning closer. Their foreheads touch, his breath billowing over her.

"Lucha... oh, he was the easy one. I always held a dislike for anime, so I didn't try much with him, but I did keep him locked in... ah, and then Julian was rather simple too. But afterward... oh, how delightful it was, Frita's slip from grace—and I must say that you and Camofrog's little dance with danger was delicious to see... But I knew. Oh, I knew. In the end you would have them all but in your hand.

"It was the perfect little ploy, wasn't it? To find only the most perfect one... It took awhile, but it only assured my victory..."

His grin meets hers of bemused wonder.

Their hands clasp tightly.

He whispers, very close now, leaning back just a breadth, "My Lyla, yes. That's what you are now, now isn't that right..?"

Silence cloaks them. Lyla stares back, eyes big and hazy.

Slowly, the boy leads his girl, like string to her heart, into the poised door and into the lacy-white bedroom within.


	81. A Lonely King

A Lonely King

The world comes back to her in a few bursts of moments. Something akin to, but very unlike, sunlight streaming through that window. Head pillowed by what she thought was, well, pillows, till she looks up and realizes oh, hey, it's not pillows _at all_ but instead the lively choice of _a human male's sparsely-clothed chest_.

Wellllllllllll!

Blush explodes across her and fingers go diving to her eyes. She stays there, shaking a little, until her stirring stirs he and the white blankets cloak about his pale figure. His arms she can feel streak around her, tugging about her, holding her close, tucked beneath his chin into the warmth of his soft and strangely alluring neck, just above collarbone.

"Good morning, Lyla," murmurs the boy, all singsong and sweet.

Of course she has no words to accommodate that. She's still kind of... kind of... struggling. Y-Yeah, that.

It's just... w-well... it's hard to picture in your head that someone feels so strongly over someone like you, let alonethe stranger boy that is admittedly pretty _well you know_. Okay. Attractive. She said it. Okay. _Okay_. But he's... n-nice, too... and that's a very nice thing... and she's not sure if she's ever met someone so calm and yet casually controlling, pushing her gently in the right direction... s-sure, she hasn't been around in Jaxk's Castle of Wonders long enough to figure out if he really is okay with her, well, rather huge flaws, but... th-that's okay.

He's nice. Th-That's a very nice thing.

Somehow she gets the feeling that she'd like it here... a-a lot.

All from thoughts within the nook of his neck. O-Oh yeah...

As if awoken by this one thought in particular, one of his hands shifts and gently tickles hers, until they flop apart from her face and he pulls her little fingers around him. Well. Someone's happy...

O-O-O- _Okay_ that's a lie _he's not the only happy one_...

Lyla sort of melts back into the sheets of the bed... the neck of the boy...

Eventually he stirs again, and with him she follows. The sheets are spread out a little more, and the dawn light—or something to that effect—comes flickering through, and by the end of it all Lyla finds herself trapped within the arms of that boy. Soft white cottony sleeves push up around her, his pants and long-sleeve alike... nearly matching her own dress—even the edges folded in like little floppy cuffs—and it makes her wonder... hey... was he wearing that when she woke up... or was he wearing those other clothes... or...

The question comes back. And because she is who she is, she has to ask: "Um... are you sure i-i-it's _me_? I'm... well... I-I have a lot of issues that others are spared from. H-Heh..."

She doesn't want the guy to let go, but... well...

"Oh, you poor dear. Don't worry about it." The soft press of his words, then accompanied by the soft press of his lips... oh, no, Lyla's melting all over again... a-aaauh... "I know who you are. I'm... very happy about it. Heh... please, don't put your thoughts into such trivial subjects."

But... But... s-something like love isn't that trivial..! It's... v-very important..!

Maybe... he just knows or something...

A memory strikes her right in the forehead. Freya's pink paws cupped about her, head tossed into the air, scrutinizing the clouds—they only left town on a less-cloudy day. Thunderstorms that crackled with energy every time her name was spoken; locking doors; Deli's sad, sad smile; the way Camofrog held that freakishly sharp stone...

They were never alone, were they?

He—the box. The clay—the figurines. The passing of coins like a greatly-treasured currency. Moving Digby—he can't _always_ stay with Isabelle, ducking out of Wherford and returning almost immediately...

Oh. A-Aaauh...

 _We can't go to Marsh every day_.

Who told her that?—and what happened when they _kept_ going? H-Hhhh...

 _All-knowing_...

A small, freakish gasp falls from her lips.

"Ahh. Oh, Lyla, darling, what is wrong?"

She shakes her head, coughing. "Um... I-I was just thinking about things..." She blinks. "I... I think it makes a little more sense now."

"Ah..." Jaxk leans in. His dark, mirror-like orbs squirm with the whisper of concern. "Don't think too hard about it. There's... well, a lot to put into it. A lot of thought... ah? Mmmh... yes, much indeed. Halloween monthly, or bimonthly at times, that dreaded tree, all of those dreadful little pawns you've finally escaped of..."

She perks. Whispers, "Pawns?"

"Why yes. The cogs of my ploy. Freya, Fauna—you know—them."

"Oh... ah... I-I guess that makes sense..!"

His smile rewards her. "Yes. I'm happy it does."

That thought stays tucked into her brain. Pawns—cogs—Freya, Fauna... a-and the others, too. Servant-like ghosts. Keke, Digby, the little kitty manipulated and shoved into his box-like clay hold. Ahhh, her name was Katie! That's it!

Jaxk's grin is reborn. His lips trail along her cheek. The blush returns as well, Lyla's head drooping with the weight of it.

He simply takes her head in his hands, pulling her soft chin upwards and upwards, pulling her into him, into another kiss.

And for a time they stay just like that. He fondling her, she graciously letting it happen, nuzzling up to the boy in turn...

Still her questions come to entail, and they form in the shape of a bear—paw wrapped about a plate, two little cups upon it, a larger pitcher of coffee.

"Would the lady and the lord take some?"

It takes her a few seconds to grasp it all. Her memory's never been all that strong, and his new bluish tint swarming all throughout his original scheme of brown doesn't help things. Then it punches her and she cries in a hushed voice—"It—ahhhh—it—it—iiiiit's... auuhhh..."

It takes her a moment. The letter, that voice, the boyfriend—Twiggy's big beady eyes all up and streaming through her once-personal space.

Her head knocks back with the punch, her eyes suddenly and startlingly lit with bright, bright aquamarine.

Jaxk watches, lips curved into a curious, hungry grin. His eyes watch her lightened ones... his so dark and full of want...

Lyla shakes her head, and the light tilts but it has yet to spill.

She whispers, shrieking, "Teddy!"

His ear flicks. The bushy dark eyebrows, still containing a bit of their original luster, those perk as well. His lips form, the words concentrate, the thought strikes like flint to the eye. And the pallor collects about his cheek as he bows his head and mutters, harshly, "Would the lady take some coffee?"

She struggles, flustered.

"T-T-Teddy? What are... auhhhmmm... Teddy..." Twitching in place. Face hot, hotter than it's been since it felt sunlight. "T-Teddy... how are you? How's..." She swallows. "Twiggy? How's Twiggy? I-Is it nice here..?"

Wh-What the heck is she supposed to say? Sh-She can hardly contain herself..!

The bushy bear merely shakes his head, his stout uniform shining and debonair, such a dropping and simple, passing-by flair. Lyla's forehead scrunches, her dark and glistening eyes dropped.

"I must ask, _only_ ask, just this _once_ more, if the lady would take some coffee?"

His smile is small, and sad, and dismissive of her.

She just nods, teeth furrowing into her lip. The light wavers, wavers, _wavers—_ steady again.

Teddy exhales deeply.

It's hot coffee... nice to hold. Jaxk's arms go around her, taking the cup and trapping her effectively. No sugar, he adds, but Lyla takes a good three spoonfuls of it.

As Teddy disappears through the door, it gently clicking behind him with those ridiculous shoes of his, Lyla's impassive face fractures.

She—no! Oh—gosh—no—this is! Gah!

Her eyes blare with color, with sound, with fear of questions and needing it all the same. If but for a moment the aquamarine shines... if but for a moment she's lost herself in innocent white light...

She tears out of the grip and out of the door and out into the hallway, her cup falling and smashing, petals to the floor in one big crash of a sound.


	82. Who Sought for his Bride

Who Sought for his Bride

Down, down, down the hall, breaths extrapolating from her shaken figure. Her little old dress—the very same as the one she arrived to Wherford in, arrived to _here_ in—flaps about her. It reminds her of something but if she says what it reminds her of, even starts thinking about it, she's scared she'll crack or something.

"Auhh!"

Speaking of cracking, that's right! There aren't _stairs_! And to add onto that, no railing, either! Lyla goes flapping her hands, dress puffing a bit behind her, falling back down on her rump and sitting there for a moment. Her head goes to the ceiling, mouth agape. She scoots toward the edge. Pulls her legs over.

Deep breath. "Okay. I'll jump off. It'll work... probably. I-I'm sure it will. My ideas are always bad, but that's okay, I've accepted it by now."

She flutters in place. Squeezes her eyes shut. Nerves rattle all over her... but... but if she doesn't do it... then... w-well...

Isn't that Teddy down there? M-Maybe. E-E-Either way... she's here somewhere. Right? She has to be. L-Lyla heard her and everything...

"Oh, no. Darling, do you need assistance on the way down?"

Dang it.

Her face heats. Lyla's eyes go skittering away, squinted tight. Deep breath, deep breath; one little nod. Her fingers curl into polite fists in her lap as she realizes she may or may not have wrecked the teacups and then ran away afterward. That... ahhh... _Lyla_...

She slowly, hesitantly opens her eyes, turning backward toward the boy, flinching at the expected anger or annoyance or or or _something_ that's surely lying around in that sweet and exotic expressi—

O-Oh. No... not at all... naught but that relentless playful mirth. She sees then that both of the cups, empty and shining, have been hooked by his thumb. Not a scratch, not a single blemish marks their flowered porcelain.

But... But she's very, very sure that she heard her cup—if not his—smash into the ground... pieces and pieces a-and pieces of white... Lyla fingers raise to her nose, rubbing at it, where the scratch was and isn't... pondering, the hand goes to her forehead, and... no scratch there either.

Raising a hand to her forehead leans her back a little too much and she falls off the edge anyways.

Even so that boy is faster and far more graceful than poor stupid Lyla. He catches her easily, lowering her to the ground. Those strange and soft and fine cotton sleeves stay about him... Lyla can't help but pull at it, staring a little incredulously. Jaxk's soft laughter embellishes her curiosity.

"Come. We've a canary to find, now don't we?"

Gaaah! Wh-Why doesn't he get mad or something!

Scared little tears form in her eyes at the thought of what horrible, horrible thing he might be about to do; only Jaxk turns at her discern and offers another of those gentle Jaxk smiles. "Don't worry about it. You want to find Twiggy? I'll help you. You can see her. Please, don't worry your poor head... she's precious to you, yes? And she's here? Then why would I hold back my poor dear Lyla?"

Her head starts throbbing a little.

It's too much... too much kindness and strange mirth in one person... i-it's almost not fair, how thoughtfully intricate he is for this one, one girl. She swallows, slowly, as he puts her down to the earth again, and with he floating and she to follow, they search the castle for her dear canary friend.

He's really gonna let her see her. N-Not a trick or something..? Ugh... this is all too unreal...

Hallways are scoured, and ballrooms and kitchens checked. A sitting room contains naught but dust. Eying it, Jaxk's finger flicks a bit more and not seconds later a few of the ghostly wisp creatures come in clad with feathery dusters. One of them—an eagle—kinda reminds her of that one from Marsh... who was it... Celia, yeah, that...

But her eyes don't stay on the eagle for long. It's just a duster, just a bit of feathers attached to a handle... and they're just _black_ , but... but they're... a-aaauuuh...

It gives her head a bit more of an ache. The light in her eyes throbs with each spell.

More wandering. She gets the feeling he could do that flicky thing and get anything to happen... say, Twiggy to be brandished in front of them. So he's leading her around for the own joy of it... o-or something...

Blush springs onto her cheeks—oh, that's right. "Um... I-I'm sorry about the teacu—"

"Aww, don't worry about it. You can make as many mistakes as you need to here. I won't be angry for someone so near and dear to me..."

This is... nnnf..!

If it's not one of her birdies who dances in her head, it's vengeful little Nibbles, or Camofrog's murky eyes... or Freya, her pink fur scrunched with annoyance, as she slammed the door in Lyla's face for being her aggravating self. _Freya, it's important! Uhhh-huhh._

Oh, no. Each thought like a blade to her heart, churning, churning as more come through. It may as well be Lucha with his awkward little Lucha smile, Lucha's wing clasping to the handle. And then this boy at the center and foremost of it all, his strangely alluring grin the focus, the point, the subject of everything.

As if eying this, Jaxk's hand scoops into hers and he pulls her just along one more hallway until they enter the heart of the castle: a tidy courtyard. Flowers in splotches of places—wait—oh—they're all black roses—okay then. A couple trees... some benches... and over in the corner, watering can in hand, lies another bluish figure, her body almost green with the once-yellow feathers. She lies in a shining dress with ridiculously tight and gleaming shoes. Black again. Her eyes go back to the bird.

Lyla has to draw her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming.

T-Too much! Too much! Too much! Auuh!

She goes running all over again. Once she reaches the bird, her hands go flying about her, head on her shoulder. Twiggy squeaks and turns and her eyes reflect Lyla's light presence and she falls into her friend's arms. Quaking.

The watering can clatters, forgotten, to the ground.

"Y-You got my letter?" she whispers. "A-And you liked it?"

Soft giggle. "I-Its grammar was much less than sub-par, b-but yes, I-I-I loved it."

They both risk a glance toward the boy approaching them. Upon their look, he stops and smirks, bats a bit of a wave.

Immediately Twiggy's wing yanks over Lyla's wrist and pulls the girl out of the other side of the courtyard, to which they disperse in the castle. Hallway after hallway—turn—after hallway, until finally they stop by one of those windows, panting heavily. Lyla's shaking and red, her breaths big and one after the other.

Twiggy's big eyes meet her friend's. "L-Lyla! I-I could hardly believe it... but... b-but you're here... oh my goodness... I worried and worried and... w-well..!"

Lyla tries to smile. She's shaking a little.

"It's... hard to believe. H-Heh... Twiggy, I-I can't believe I got to see you again... It—I saw Teddy—he had tea—and... and then I just... I just freaked out and came running!

Pause. "Is... Is Chris here?"

Twiggy look away. She tries for a not, but just a tiny nod. Dear Chris, short hair and big smiles, his kind mute wonder... there is something wrong. "Yes, but, auh... You wouldn't want to see him. He-He's very... different. H-H-here.

Lyla is given a small, sad grin. "I hate that you're here."

"Whhh?" Lyla blushes, fingers coiling together in front of her.

"We-We've all seen it." Twiggy, shaking her head, turns back to a nearby weird glowing window. A particular window, just a little ways away. "We've all seen it... h-hehh... s-sure, you, I guess... 'saved' them, or something... but... j-just look at this! All of this... this _destruction_... and for what? Aah... I-I hate that _boy_..." She glances back, worried, at the window, then to Lyla again. Her bluish face can only hold so much emotion, but it tries, it tries very hard to convey her feelings over.

Lyla's voice drops. Her curls hang over her eyes. "Twiggy... ah... what is it?"

Quivering, the bird steps back from the window. Lyla takes the hint and pulls toward it, eyes wide.

A sun in the corner, sure... clouds swarming all along the sky—and—she swallows hard—bark. Bark, oh _bark_. Tree bark splattered all throughout the grass. Houses have torn and crumbled in but touches by this. Holes puncture them, water burbling in them... it's the aftermath of a battlefield.

Hey... she glances back toward the north... h-hey, where's the... where's the train station? Tha-Tha-That's _important_. It was Lyla's first hint of when Marsh was... when it was...

Wherford. It... oh.

The window focuses in on someone. Her heart leaps—they're still around?! Wh-What are they _doing_ in this mess! Oh... oh right. Train station. Tree. It's... a-a bit of a... well. Lyla grasps at memory and connects face to thought and nearly cries: oh, gosh, is that Julian? His long and lavishing blue hair has been overcome by knots... he-he's not even wearing eyeliner. O-Or mascara for that matter...

Lyla shares a frightful look with her dear friend.

"Wh-What?!"

Twiggy swallows then. She's dropped her head. "Lyla... um... How do I—oh... um... D-Do you remember when Camofrog... ahhh..." She leans to the ground, mimics shifting, mimics grabbing something, stabbing it forward, forward, back at herself.

Face white, the girl slowly, carefully nods.

"He told you something then, d-didn't he?"

If it's any possible, her face goes whiter.

Twiggy tries for a smile, shaking her head. "I hate it here." Swallow. "I-I _hate_ it here. And I _hate_ that _you're_ here too. That—That sssstupid Bruce convinced you to c-come or wh-wh-whatever... and that now it's all just... a-ah..."

Her wings go to her face. The poor thing shivers in the midst of the hallway.

"We've really, _really_ screwed up... haven't we? Aaaa-aahaha... aaaa-aa-and it's not even our fault... is it? No, it's... it's him. Lyla—Lyla, you should ask him what's gonna happen to them after this.

Lyla's eyes go back to the unicorn. Fur matted, the sparkle he carries but a wisp in his current appearance. "A-And you should ask _yourself_ what... what you re-really..." Swallow. Deep breath. "What you really... want. A-And I mean _you_... not... w-well."

Again the bird glances back. Shaking more. Her bluish wing sails to Lyla's chest, to Lyla's heart.

"Your light... i-i-in your eyes. I-It came back. Please don't..." Shaking further, her wing slips from her friend. "P-Please don't lose it again."

A great skittish look envelops the bird. She bundles herself together in her dark dress, glancing frantically about, just behind Lyla's shoulder, and with a soft cry she darts off. A strangled part of "Goodbye" she leaves, but it's hard to tell which piece of it even came through in the end.

Moments after, the hand cups her shoulder, and Jaxk's face meets her pale stare. "And how are you, darling?"

Swallow. Lyla... Lyla, don't lose focus here... what did Twiggy tell you?

"Um... d-d-darling... um... I have something to ask you."

His smile blooms. Somehow she gets the feeling he already knows. "Yes, and what might that be?"

"U-Ummmm..!" A whimper escapes from Lyla's lips. Her hands wrap about her in a little hug, body fitfully shaking. Jaxk quietly and skillfully pulls her fingers away from her. Holds her shaking body carefully. "I-I have to aaassk... wh-wh-what happens to—to Wherford... a-and everyone in it... a-a-after this?" Shallow breaths accompany her finish. She tosses her head back.

"Ah. Would you like to know?"

She tries very hard to nod.

"Well, I suppose I'll take them... Zoosis, Butterfly, perhaps some of the square as well: all of them into my collection. They'll _all_ be here."

Lyla's head tilts slowly toward the ground. Shaking, shaking, shaking.

"Isn't that a nice thought, dear Lyla? We'll have them all but in our hand. I mean... they are but tools to be bent to their purpose. And I figure you might have a pet-like attachment to some of them, so I may as well, yes? Wouldn't that be nice?"

Her head swims. As tight as his grip is, Lyla goes splintering back, pulling away, away, away from the boy and falling to the tile earth before him.

Her eyes are very wide. The light that lined them tosses itself back and forth, dangerously weak, dangerously spiraling closer and closer to oblivion.

She covers her face. Deep breaths, deep breaths. Shaking fingers plaster back to the tile, trying to form fists until she realizes that's not gonna happen and drops it. "N-Nice?

"I-I-I'm sorry... but that's..."


	83. And Found Her

And Found Her

Jaxk's soft, slender smile greets her again. His face dips toward her on the cold tile and he sits, then—floating no longer—in front of her. Whispers, "Lyla, you don't know that." The smile is so playful... so near hers...

"Nnnnf..!" No—No, sh-she does!

That gentle laughter. "No, oh, darling, no, you don't." The glint in his eye suggests she has no idea what she's getting into, just what she's trying to do.

And you know what! She doesn't! When has she, l-let's be honest! She... She never expected to turn a group of nine different sad characters into some form of pitiable glory—she never—how was _that_ supposed to make her be _this_? Wh-What kind of a fate is this! How are the "cogs" of nine "tools" supposed to be turned by _sh-she alone_ in such a way to make this make... make...

How does he want... such a specific person? Her head tilts, eyes bright and spotty. And what... what does... what...

Taking her silence with a plow, Jaxk's forehead leans into hers again, his eyes sparkling and very near hers. "Oh, Lyla," he murmurs, "you silly fool."

He's... practically towering over her... her tiny, pale palms submerged by his... that grin so close, his breath upon her... She can hear them too. It's such a strange thing, his heart beating, lungs filling and releasing of air, the air with just a bit of a touch of sound coiling around and around her...

Suddenly she remembers something.

Lyla slept in that bed with this boy.

She... she _slept_.

Nightmares—the nightmares... the monsters that kept her up at night...

Her eyes darken about the edges with a certainty as she looks into the boy. Just that mirth, that playful mirth, looking down on her. No wonder, no fear, no thought otherwise, or at least none that he's showing. His lips tug with their own thought, Jaxk leaning close and then his lips over hers.

Always so intoxicating... this feeling... this heart... those soft, soft lips... ahh...

When he leans back, she struggles and struggles and—ahhh! Scrambles back from him again. Panicky breaths wrack her body. She has to stop for a moment before turning back. Thinking about it... well. Duh. He's _letting_ her go. And by the clasp of those long, slender, pale fingers... he presumes he never really released her in the first place.

Deep breath. "I don't want them to... I—nnnf..." Shakes her head. "They shouldn't... shouldn't have to... g-go through all that.. e-especially not again..."

"Yes, dear, but they are no more than tools. So what does it matter, their outcome?" Jaxk's flawless little grin.

"Um." She blinks. "Because they _are_ more than tools?"

"Oh, you poor darling." Three long steps close their distance again. "No, they are not," he whispers, as if it is some deadly secret for them to share alone. Head tilted toward her... Lyla scoots back a little more, then circles around the boy in her bare feet. She dashes back and clasps over by that window, the window what doesn't just produce sunlight but—but her _friends_ , and she stares at it hopelessly.

Not Julian anymore. A little doe sits by the river, plucking at the wood in it. She's at the bottom, where it all must gather... trying to unclog the poor stream. After some hapless moments of it, eyes squinting, she manages a soggy piece. And another, and another. And a certain blue-feathered bird approaches. He sits beside her. He helps her with the load, and their attempt grows stronger.

Come on... C-Come on, Lyla. She bunches up her fists, about to turn back to the boy, when—

A short creature in a smock trots across the river, using the tree like a bridge. Canvas in hand, he sits upon it, his orange-and-brown-and-golden-flecked orbs open and perceiving of the world. He removes his paints from his smock's pocket one-by-one, and when he reaches the strawberry-red color, he pauses, nostalgic.

A-Aaauuh...

He... He pulls out his black glass, that black paint from before. And he gives it a long, hard stare... and with a shake of the head, muttering something on his lips, he places it back into his smock.

And then Jaxk has his arms around his girl, and he's kissing and fondling her and he's trapped her effectively with the affection, the warmth, until Lyla pulls back yet again. She turns to stare up at Jaxk with those big, hopeful eyes of hers; he nearly giggles.

"Lyla, you can stop now." The grin deepens. "You are mine. I've put my mark _all_ over you, and you can stop trying already. Alright?"

She swallows. "I-I—I love them."

"Do you? Fascinating. I love you more than I'm sure they do, and I would much rather kiss you than argue about such meaningless fluff, so how about we—"

"N-No!" she cries, "no! Y-You don't understand! _I love them_! I-I don't want them to have to go _back_ into the depths they were p-put into! I-I get it..." Swallow. "I get it. You're... um... you're all-knowing and all-powerful and pretty much unstoppable... or something, right? O-Okay. So therefore you wouldn't understand like I would... I-I guess. To you they really are just pawns... and mortals... and stuff. S-So maybe it doesn't matter.

"But it... they're all so... j-just look at them!"

How does she say this so that he hears her!

"This is the _first time_ I think I've _ever_ seen Camofrog paint with such gusto! A-A-And his eyes are so—aahh! They're so _happy_! E-Even so, they're so happy, _darling_!" She points back at the screen. "A-And Fauna and Jay are all cuddly and cute and stuff! It-It's... it's a nice thing to see..." Her head droops.

"Well is it?" Jaxk cups her cheek. "It doesn't quite matter, though, does it? Come. I wish to saturate you."

"Ummm!" He's not listening!

The eyes drop down to her level. "Lyla... whatever could be imposing enough to intrude upon my love for you? As I said... you are mine." A spark in the eye. "Ahh... perhaps I did not tell you? Then I may as well now.

He leans in. "Lyla, I kept you up at night. I am the one who broke into your soul and slowly and carefully tore you apart, just to the point so that you would know nothing else other than me, once the time finally came for me to come and get you. I was very, very careful in my plan, and that includes in my desire to make you _mine_."

She blinks.

How... devoted. A-And to her... o-o-of all people.

Lucha—the word's on her lips and she clasps her hands over her face. Breathing deeply.

Is she broken? Why... well... she recalls a time when the boy just prior had... completely overwhelmed her... but... But Teddy, but Twiggy... but her little mention of sweet Chris to his downfall and the sight of Julian almost completely disassembled... she tries to breathe. Pinpricks make it hard to see much of anything.

No... Lyla... she is broken. She can feel it and she—she just knows it. It's one of those things. How devoted... how devoted is he, exactly?

"That's... um, that's very... s-sweet of you."

His eyes glow. "Yes, isn't it?" Head tilting; he's asking if they've finished. Can he kiss her now?

"I... ah... um..." A fitful burning in her eyes. Very bright, very unlike the shadows of yesterday. "I love them." Whispers it again. Almost fully to herself, brimming with that hurt in her heart.

Again the word nearly spews out her mouth: Lucha, Lucha, Lucha! Well... yeah, okay. He's a bird. And he's a sweet bird. And a derpy bird, but also very kind and awkward and thoughtful and—

"Lyla. You can stop with the 'bird' obsession. I'm here. Let us go."

Her hand goes to her heart. She, ah... um...

The other hand, tucked by her side, manages to furl into a fist.

She whispers to herself, "That's the thing about birds, isn't it?" Her eyes, big and bright, glance up back toward him.

"Lyla..?"

She's nodding. "Yeah... that's right. That's the thing about birds. They're beautiful creatures, and they are so free and... their songs are so... so, auhh, heart-wrenching... and it doesn't matter if they're on your side or not. They're beautiful. And that's that, now isn't it?"

His mind's working. Of course, that is a bit out of place, and rather bizarre, but he's trying to catch onto whatever it is that girl is thinking.

"Yes... yes, and they're so beautiful, that I can't help but love them all, now can't I? And it seems like sometimes that I'll never finally attach myself to who truly... _matters_ to me... like people are just feathers and flocks... and while it's fun to watch... it's lonely, too. Oh, birds."

Her fingers to his chest, to his beating heart.

He watches, curiously, intent. Her hands are warm.

"You're such a... ahh... a wonderful... enchanting... and kind bird... Jaxk."

The name comes out perfectly. She has yet to notice.

"But so many birds are caged and what sucks is they just kinda lose it, don't they? The cage becomes their everything, their kingdom, their world, and—and they forget to wake up and smell the roses again!"

He does. The rest of her words, gliding by, they hardly hit him after that.

Since when has somebody whispered it so lovingly?

"A-And that's no good! I know! It's weird! I'm comparing people to birds and I don't even know where the roses came from! But this world is so broken and sad and stuff! A-And I'm sorry, Jaxk, darling, whatever, I'm sorry, but I don't think I broke the right way!

A soft sob shivers out of her. Head tilts. Fingers tight in his cotton white shirt. "You tried to hard to fill me with hate and anguish and I—I don't even know! But I'm too stupid to work right, and here I am! You broke me like..." Deep breaths. Thinking, thinking. "Like a glowstick! And—i-it's just as you said, now all I do is shine!"

The boy watches, transfixed, as little Lyla melts into him.

He doesn't think he's ever seen someone cry about their inability to understand him. No... never has somebody wanted this much to... to actually _be_ with him... it makes him realize that perhaps he had it wrong, perhaps there was a flaw, or two, or three with the plan he has crafted and tweaked and worked with for oh, so long. Years melted into decades, to centuries, to millennium. His little world, his beloved and wretched Wherford spun on an axis so unlike all else imaginable for so long, and the moment she cracked into it he tried to destroy her...

A little tear traces its way down his cheek.

"Lyla... you're too much... Auh, my darling... you're too much."

Footing in this world tips; the two sail down into a boundless barrier. A yellow-like light seeps throughout the endless chamber and colors it lightly. In the air Lyla lifts her arms and she sails, if but for moments... can't hardly believe herself... _flying_... just like...

She reaches upward, snags again upon the boy. His dark and luscious curls frame his grief, his loss, his... hope. In what, she wonders... in what indeed? Something... she likes to think about that...

Lyla pulls the boy into her and their lips meet in a kiss.

Eyes closed, fingers held tightly amongst one another...

Jaxk but dissolves in her grasp... his beautiful soul and his long curls and those big, dark eyes... and the soft lips and his slender hands and every part about him slips from this world.

She doesn't know where... doesn't know why... doesn't know, doesn't know... A bit of a sense of loss pricks her heart... but she feels that no... Jaxk did fill her... he had... and he succeeded in it too... now didn't he...

The girl falls, and falls, and light clings to shadow and things solidify around her and clouds are sunken and thrashed apart by her falling, pale body; and her eyes close into the darkness as she feels just for a moment longer the soft touch of a boy she will never see again.

And that's okay.

She likes to wonder, in her last moments of consciousness... where he went.


	84. The End

TxxhExxxENx0.

There is a boy. Curly hair, brown, tall, who walks a path he cannot see any longer. He feels that if he keeps going, he may find a light.

He has never seen a light in all of his memories. So he is afraid of this light. The glasses that are broken that swing about his neck glisten with the catching of this light; his vest is touched and held by it, and it brightens its colors. His freckles like dots are poked into him and his dark and dull brown eyes are illuminated like they never have been before.

The light is scary. Like a rampant _child_ and its arsenal of markers it will never never cease to touch him. And he can't remember seeing a light. But even so that being said... he can't remember much other than the trains. The trains and _he_... and memories of _he_ are growing dim. The light does not illuminate but rather darkens those ones. Which makes him sad.

He wanted to be elevated after he found the girl. That little girl, pale, curly hair kept in those awkward hair bands and those big, aquamarine eyes. Of course... he forgot that servants in the end aren't very important, are they? He is above Isabelle and Tom Nook and Katrina... and the scum that made up Totakeke Slider, but he is not much above. Only treasured because he was better, a little more willing than the others.

A grim smile captures his face. And he stops. For the light is scary, and it's already consumed so much of him.

People suffer. Their suffering is great. And they cannot escape their suffering without help. Some ignore it, hide it, couldn't attempt to care less about it. And they were called, thus, by a plane of higher existence. They were used, tools, like puzzle pieces, and his servants would go out and search, for a very long time. So long that some of the elder have died... there used to be a turtle with such fame.

And they search—so they search. In search of the perfect one. And the perfect one will fit these pieces together and they—no, she— _she_ will have found him, and she will have been _his_ , and she will have been his... forever. So he will be sure of it.

Or so he was. Or so he thought.

Bruce brings his tanned hands to his face in anguish. He is not scared, no—he is _terrified_ of this light. No, petrified. Stuck in place like stone for he cannot... imagine... leaving his old friend the Dark.

His master is gone. His master has gone far, far away. All of the servants and the ghosts at his castle were so happy they began to weep, to weep and embrace one another as their dark little forest was deconstructed, bit by bit by bit of light. Those who could speak his name were rebuked of this right; the ghosts, their souls having been owned by him, were unable to go back to living, but the light took them all, pleased to save them.

But Lyla... she was not a servant, nor a ghost, nor any tool of the sort. No... is she the widow, now? Where exactly... does that girl fall?

Ah, it is no matter. The light is coming.

Upset, frightful, Bruce steps backwards. Only there is light behind him too... but just outside of his bubble of black, it does not come any further. For light does not force you into it, no: it shall wait, patiently, for you to want its merciful warmth.

He is allowed to stay in his puddle. If that is as he so desires, then it shall be so. But... perhaps he shouldn't—should he? Unlike the ghosts and the servants, unlike those in the box and in Zoosis and Butterfly, and poor, poor, weepy Isabelle, he wanted this. He embraced the darkness with all of his might, all of his heart. Fell in love with it, grew with it.

Or so he thought. The memories are hard to keep straight these days.

Sometimes he'll recall a pair of golden orbs. A blushing and soft pink face, and a smile concealed within the muzzle. And he realizes that he misses that. Friend... wasn't she? A friend. Yes. Freya. She was nice. Nice to have around.

And sometimes his mind will get the better of him, and he will recall Keke. A time and a place far prior to today, when they stood together on the same side of the world. And Fauna, too; because where is one without the other?

No. He blinks, recalls. No, that has changed. Their love soured and poisoned with the pain of the night, and now they have separated paths.

A bitter smile coalesces into Bruce's lips.

Now isn't that so?

Then why should he step into it? Into a world where there is certainty and uncertainty—you cannot have light without darkness. At least in his puddle he is _alone_ with it and doesn't have to _worry_ , now _does_ he?

Bruce hangs his head. A sob, or a laugh, or something, protrudes.

"Fie. Take me, then. I suppose I am already quite a sob.

"Will you care for me, and help me with this? Perhaps if you do I'll live with my passing. Auh, goodbye to the old me... goodbye, my old friend. Must I? Well... the time has come, hasn't it?

"Oh curse you. But I will go. I will go now."

A single step and he is swamped with the lukewarm brightness, an ecstasy like no other. It sours upon his face, but he does it anyways, step two, step three, step four, and it gets easier with each time.

And so he goes, step by step by step, into the light.

 **Oh my goodness, was this arc crazy or what!**

 **I know, you probably have a lot of questions (the story still has twenty chapters actually, haha, falling action and resolution)**

 **And I mean, Lyla thinks Lucha is dead. As far as we know, he isn't. Is he? Buh?**

 **Did anyone like Jaxk? Honestly I love that boy, oh gosh. He's the best... I mean, he's also crazy and nearly impossible to understand but I still love him TTwTT**


	85. And Then there was Light

And Then there was Light

A rather disheveled figure dips out from the eaves of a house. Its harsh shadow of dawn tainted his silhouette a fine and shifty shade of gray, one that he didn't think suited him at all. But at the same time the morning's sun was too much brightness for his sad little feathered soul, and that thought messed with him. Afternoon, maybe? Was he more of the afternoon type? Are there even "types" for the "day" or "light of day" to be suited for?

Well. It was worth a shot.

The house was... suitably huge. If that's even a thing either. It had been two floors high for awhile. Of course, among other unfortunate victims, tree branches the size of airplanes had acutely skewered it into the earth, but here and there a bit of wall and some rubble stood and helped keep the roof from a complete cave-in.

The mushroom television on said second floor must be a mess by now. That's a strange thought to think, staring at the once-fine home now a hazard incarnate for life: the literal skewer of tree branch upon home. But he does, he thinks all about that mushroom-shaped television that he'd already broken just prior to this demise. Poor television.

It hadn't deserved such a fate.

What a thought. Pinning inanimate objects to all kinds of "suitable" and "unsuitable" destines, like he's sorting them by "good" or "bad" or something or another. That's so useless. They don't even have souls in the first place.

Well they say "gingers" don't have souls either.

The boy self-consciously reaches and pats at a strawberry red feather sticking out on the top of his head.

That doesn't count, does it? Does it?

Ah. Rubbish. He's been all over ever since the sky split open and bark rained down. Instinctively the wing stops and reaches for the scar across his cheek, the one small enough to heal on its own but large enough to merit some sympathetic winces. Still hurts. Sometimes. And he has a lot of bruises—like everyone else. And, you know. There's still wood shavings in his clothes, in his feathers. In a few places.

A certain monkey comes up strolling. He lands his hand on his best friend's back; Lucha lets out some form of a grunt. "Mmh. My friend, you've changed."

"And?" The bird turns to greet his best friend's melancholy. Deli with his white hair in his eyes, the eyes half-closed, blocking, futilely, the thoughts of yesterday and today and the day before, too. And a few more.

"Well. I guess," he mutters, eyes strolling in his head, "if you wanna look at it _that_ way, we've all changed, we're all _better creatures_ , blah-blah happily-after holding-hands end. Uh?" His tail twirls with the smirk on his face, and his hands come together for a polite clap.

Lucha blinks. "Deli?"

"Bravo, bravo, _bravo_."

"Encore?" he squeaks. A little too high-pitched. Wince.

The monkey snorts, his face halting the conversation. His hands come together in a smooth fold. "I'd love to. Of course. Would you like to play the lead role, and I'll take supporting? Pshaw. I doubt you'd make a good Lyla."

Lucha's eyes skitter. The soft gray orbs flick and sputter in place. He lowers his bill with his head and he shakes a bit.

"Aah, dude..! I-I was kidding. Sorry." Looking back, Deli's face shadows. His hand goes to the back of his neck. He smiles awkwardly. "I'm sorry, Lucha. That was... well. Heh..."

Lucha's head droops a little more. "S-Sorry."

"Auuuhhg. We've been over this, Luchie."

"I—sorry. Sorry, Deli... I'm sorry."

"Lucha! Lucha—we've... gahhh..!" An exasperated sigh escapes: it squeezes as it comes out. Forced. Very.

Pity lines the rims of big and sharp amethyst eyes. Slowly, shaking, a hand extends from his side, and it takes hold of his best friend's. He pulls at that wing of his, the feathers limp and frayed. He pulls and pulls and pulls, and stares so sadly at the drooping posture.

When the head of the monkey tips back upwards, a wave of light hits his cheeks and the tip of his little monkey nose. The eyes are enveloped within a light; he stays still, as if swallowed by it. Chin tilted, tail held, fingers tight upon the wing of his friend's, tugging at it, tugging.

"I don't know. I'm not you. But if I were, I'd be grateful."

Lucha's head pops back up, features narrowed just slightly. "Would you, Deli? Would you?"

He shrugs in turn. "I dunno. I ain't you." His hand reaches for the chest inside of that strawberry red layer, inside of organs and muscles working together, intertwined and keeping that soul grounded for only so much longer, beneath layers and unforeseen layers of feelings and judgment and whispers of thoughts, and he almost reaches those depths.

Then Lucha's head twists, and he mutters, "Yeah, you're not." He's blushing again; he doesn't take it back, doesn't stutter, doesn't tread lightly.

His best friend's hand falls to his side. Slowly, smirking, the monkey doffs his head.

"Well. You better do you!

He smiles a bit, turning back then. "I'll do me, and you'll do you, and then the world can start spinning again." And with that, the monkey takes his leave. His tail twitches as he turns, but he doesn't stop turning.

Lucha turns too. He's looking away, sort of at the trees, but sort of not, but sort of at the same time he is. Mostly. Maybe.

There was a tree in the plaza once upon a time. It all came crashing down and it must've been every last one of them whose reality shattered as it came falling. Then Lyla was gone, and then a lot of their houses tore to shambles, and then other things happened too: people had to move again. Sure, it was a forced reaction, but it happened, didn't it?

Jay staying with Fauna. Deli staying with Freya. Isabelle's sort of been temporarily dislocated—out of town. Camofrog and Nibbles awkwardly squeezed in with the jaybird. Julian went with Curlos who went with Frita who have shared for the first time in years—they had to move in with she—and it's not going well but that's okay!

Well. Lucha can say that. Sort of.

His house wasn't impacted. Unlike this two-floor mess of history, unlike most everyone else, Lucha has remained unhit, undeterred, and... lonely.

He takes his time walking. It's mostly quiet, unless someone goes out of their way for him. Sure... everyone's taken part in all that happened, everyone's cracked and ugly, and sure, they all care, they all understand that something awful and strange and possibly wonderful and surreal has happened, even though they are sort of stuck here unless they wanna walk—and they don't.

But he... oh, let him be selfish. Let him be disgruntled, let him be full and full to overflowing of a kind of impatience that may never stop running. Let him lose himself in his disgrace and feel the pain of the thorn, because he has plucked the rose and the rose pricked him, pricked him back hard.

The flaws are obvious when forced into such a harsh strain of light. He can lift his feathers and count every last bit of unravel and spot of dull upon them, in the harsh light of dawn. He was never strong, not in his words and never in spirit, and he stayed stubborn to the end of it all, and yet at the same time he followed blindly. As the vase falls off of the table and shatters into millions of pieces, he accepts this and decides that he should try to get good. Or better. At least by a little bit.

Lucha takes his steps slowly, and eventually he's in the north of Wherford. It just kind of happens. He's wandering and because he's in the wrong place at the wrong time he is the lucky one to lock eyes with a very certain brown-haired— _brown-haired—_ oh.

He tries his best to stuff his squeaky panicky voice in his throat. Of course, it doesn't make him any stronger, but it certainly aides his weak side.

"Ahh, Lucha." The boy with the glasses strangled round his neck steps near. Lucha scoots back some. He's got tangles and twigs and all kinds of fun in his hair that Lucha really doesn't wanna be a part of. "Lucha, have you seen Freya? I need to speak with her. It's important." Twinkling brown eyes, a bit of a grin. And stubble for that matter—man, where has he been?

As much as Lucha would love to talk himself out of this, it takes all of his willpower not to go squealing into oblivion. So he just kind of stands there. Just—Just standing. Holding in his breath. Lungs kinda ache. Oof.

"Lucha."

He grunts a bit.

"Lucha, haven't you heard?"

Oh? Heard what? That perks the bird.

"Lucha! Stop standing there like an idiot!"

Aw dang it, it's not worki—

"LUCHA!"

"BUHH?"

Dang it dang it dang it dang it—

"LUCHA, THE SLAVES HAVE BEEN CUT OF THEIR BINDINGS AND YOU JUST _STAND_ THERE? LUCHA! LUCHA FEEL THE FREEDOM AND FLY AWAY!"

It sends the bird spiraling down. He sits hard on the earth. His head he tilts in, wings shaking, body folding in on itself. Just... fly away, huh? He's shaking his head, smirking, frowning, weakening with each thought. Yeah, just—just lift your wings and fly off, huh?

What a tasteless, unsightly morsel.

Glaring at the ground, he whispers, "Yes. Of course. Because after all these years I still know how to."

Because he must be the weakest and saddest and stupidest and most possibly most horrible creature to have ever existed in the history of the earth, Lucha crumples. His head goes into his knees and the tears come raining down and with the gusto and the pain of the sky lashing open, he sobs.

Because he doesn't know how to fly. Because none of them do. Because the last time someone flew a tree knocked them out of the air, and because the time before that is a time too far gone to remember.

"Maybe," he rasps, panting, "maybe we're just not suited for it. Maybe we're not supposed to know how to." Nodding, bobbling, shaking, sobbing.

Bruce lands himself by the bird. His hands he tucks politely in front of him; then he goes something like screw it and pulls them back out, stretches them toward the beautiful strawberry red creature. He can glimpse for a moment what someone very hopeful and very stupid once saw in him: a big heart, a lot of angst and confusion and trial and error. A lot of hope as well. He was bad at it, bad at a whole lot of things. But he wasn't lacking, no, not at all.

"Then... can I help you? H-Heh... I'm sorry. Maybe I shouldn't, I-I know, I'm just regaining all kinds of things. But... I-I was stuck too. And now I'm not. So... I can only try."

The bird lets him. Of course, time will move and the sun will set before his eyes go dry, and the aching in his hands from letting go will only intensify during these hours, but then dawn will come. And with dawn a sun very bright, and very harsh, and very hopeful.

"Come along, won't you? I told you, and I'm telling you, I'm not going anywhere. Not until we figure this all out, huh?"

So together, they go to Freya's, because really, there's nowhere else to be. It's a slow walk, and it's a painful walk to take, but together they go, and together they make it to Freya's.


	86. And, Man

And, Man

There is a falling. Some would come to describe this particular moment more like a "spit" or a "raindrop" than a "fall", but anyways. A fall it was. From grace? From the heavens? From... space? Was she an alien?

No, in fact, she wasn't.

Out from the sky came a girl, and she fell rather awkwardly toward the earth. Her land was a bit harsh, but not as harshly as she deserved because she woke a few minutes later without reporting much other than a scratch or two. Hardly left an impact either: the ground bunched up and swooned with her catch, but it didn't collapse like in the superhero movies.

She wasn't much of one; a lousy hero she'd be, anyways.

The nice little town, albeit a shade too rural for the placement and the people, well, they were torn on this whole incident. A girl? From the sky? Did she just land here? Any impact? Is she injured?

A smooth landing, they'd say, shaking their heads.

Eventually the mayor approached, because, well, someone had to. Might as well be him. A couple of his assistants trailed, one wolf—white-furred—and one a cat—brown-furred—both rather matching in their sense of unapproachable pristine. Those awkward official skirts without much fluff in them, the makeup, the stern looks.

Mayor on the other hand had a nice sheen to him. Very welcoming. Smiles, nods, the like. Tall, too. He had on a tux and a top hat combo but he wasn't gaudy about it either. Liked tuxes and top hat combos. End of story. Nice shoes, too, but sky-girl was doing more staring at his face.

"You look like Bruce," are her first words to reality.

Of course, the mayor's never heard such a name in his life, and even if he has they're just people in passing, and he is not a Bruce, doesn't look much of one either. "Sorry, are you feeling alright?" he asks, voice deep but strangely warming too. Now... sure, he had the height. Brown hair, too. But he didn't... he just didn't _have_ it, and he was too pale to match the Bruce she knew. Without a freckle in sight.

Plus he actually wore his black-rimmed glasses. Scrutinized the sky-girl in them.

Shrugging, picking herself up and taking his outstretched hand like her whole act was nothing, and nothing more than that, she goes, "Oh, yeah, I'm great, how about you?"

Blink. "Excuse me. Ah, you know you just fell from the sky, right? Are you _sure_ you feel alright?"

"Ummm." Her big and harsh blue eyes—a funny light aquamarine—they blink, just once. "Yeah, I'm fine. It's not every day I fall out of the sky, or whatever, but yeah. I'm good. Are _you_ alright?" Coy smile.

In the end he decides to table the matter. "Sure." His assistants titter as he goes on. "Welcome to Shoeland. I'm the mayor here; my name's Andrew. What's yours?"

She blinks again.

"I'm sorry—uh—Shoeland."

"Yes."

She shrugs. "Okay then. I've heard weirder." Wherford counts, right? Or Marsh maybe. Marsh sounds kinda desperate, like they were running out of ideas and picked the first thing that happened. Something. "I'm Lyla! I'm looking to go home, and never have I ever heard of this place before, but hey, maybe you can help me anyways!"

The boy shrugs, grinning. "I hope we can. It'd be a shame if you were stuck here."

Lyla's grin returns. He doesn't realize how much truth lies in those words.

Her new best buddy Andrew tours her around the humble village of Shoeland. It's a bit sparse, but hey. Wherford's worse off, come on, she'll be honest. Not to mention that _tree_... a slight shudder comes and goes.

She nods when they look, and she mutters a few idle things when they point out stuff every so often. They have a coffee shop too, but it's different, smaller, run by some old-time cops or the sort. And there's a library too. Big and clean and airy, welcome to all. When she passes by the little cafe and Andrew decides for a bit of a detour, she catches eye with one of the two owners. A pudgy and brownish dog, big pug face, big eyes, soft smile.

They eye each other like they share a secret.

The second dog—a reddish husky of sorts—when he approaches, he has it too. They stay like that for a moment, until Lyla doffs her head and goes onward with the mayor and his assistants.

They doff to her back. One holds a knowing smile, and asks the other about decisions in a world a long time ago. He nods, smiles. Maybe it's not so bad there anymore. Yeah, maybe.

As one takes the coffees to the group, the other mentions a thing or two to the wolf sitting at the bar. He nods some, thinking. Yeah, I've heard a little about the place myself. I think one of my old wolf cousins knew somebody over in his place who's been there, knew about it... So, you know.

Rumors spread quickly within the confines of a little town. Sky-girl is dubbed a name, and her story skyrockets. Some hear that she used to fight crime in the alleys of Yew Nork. Others debunk it, go, no, she's from another dimension entirely. And a final voice will smile and look away from it all because they heard otherwise.

A few will know. A small handful.

His reach was everywhere before the reign came to its end. If not in lore then impressions, afterthoughts, the stray and utterly random nightmare. So sighting this changes hearts, changes old questions from a time long ago, and only further adds to the speculation of the sky-girl.

By the time Lyla's head reaches the pillow of the guest room in their own tidy little town hall, there will be all kinds of insane lies filling the heads of the villagers. Of course, hers doesn't even think to nibble at the topic: all that occupies her are the big dark eyes and the long luscious curls and the face of a beauty once caged to its own forces.

An image once whole has begun to break down.

She raises her fingers to the ceiling, lips moving without sound. Her eyes will work and her hand will finger left and right and left... and she'll wonder just how far away from home she is.

She only trusts that she will find it.


	87. It was a Pretty Great Light

It was a Pretty Great Light

In the morning their dubbed sky-girl is up bright and early, as people lacking much time for a great length in society can be, and she leaves the town hall in the quiet of this dawn. The air is a little chilly but not too much so, although it does bring her to the attention of the matter called her dress.

Fraying again. The edges, mostly, always the edges. She's worried that all of Fauna's careful and loving handiwork has but wasted after the events of... well, falling out of the sky. Okay, she did land softly, so she kinda deserved it... but it's still kinda nerve-wracking to think about, especially to think about too much. Her little white tank dress now stained all over. Something obviously for summer—which makes her think oh, Wherford was a very October climate and she wore this thing most days.

She couldn't really plan for it but that was still a sad afterthought on her part. Ah well. Time has passed. Things have changed.

A pearly blue sky welcomes the girl back to reality; the sunshine beats down with a strolling lilt in foot. It's warmer as the morning rolls on. Lyla spends her time exploring the humble Shoeland, checking out its well-decked library and peering at the colorful houses decorating their town. Most of them consist of more than one floor, or at least more than one room, and as far as she can tell the town hall didn't hold any necessary appliances that couldn't be found elsewhere.

Only them, then.

She means... of course. It's not like anywhere else would be anymore different. But she still thinks about it, on her walk around Shoeland. The grass tickles at her bare and pale toes, and she wonders if she should get back into that old habit of wearing shoes. She always liked shoes. A weird thing to like but she did, man, she liked shoes. Kept forgetting them in Wherford and usually didn't own them on the trains. Money was sparse; shoes could be lived without; it hurt but they were some of the first to go.

Ah, funny.

But as she thinks about it, her curly head nods off a bit. This is kinda like her train ride to Wherford. Going back there again, now isn't she.

Why return to the home that disowned you?

Because she's stupid. That's why.

Lyla giggles.

"Mmmh?" a punctuated sneer slaps her over the cheek. "What is it the child laughs about noooow?" The _tik tik tik_ of pointed toes—birdy toes, gotta be—in the dirt and stones alerts her to her new friend.

The shadow cast upon her offers feathers. Oh, hey, feathers. And a bill, too, rounded but sharp all the same. Lyla's heart beats and beats and beats in her chest the longer she waits and the longer she stares at the ground and the shadow draped along her; as she whips her head sidelong a bundle of green feathers meets her and for a moment she almost remembers something.

Only this eagle is a boy; the memory drifts back out of her reach. Eagle boy, mustache, some relish-green feathers, very bright. And his cheeks, puffy, just so match the red of ketchup... and well it's rather obvious what that makes his bill.

"Y-You can't call me a child! I'm super old and stuff!" she cries in turn. Not really meaning it, and never quite loud, but whatever.

The eagle smirks, his eyelids lowering with some kind of swagger. "Ouhhh, of cooourse not, no. And how old are you?"

Her cheeks pink. "Twe-Twenty-two." As far as she can remember. Last time she checked.

"Ahh, well then I can! Because I, you little snot-nosed child, am the fierce and powerful age number of twenty- _nine_." His chest feathers puff out. This is something to be _very_ proud of. Of course. But only.

Lyla stares at him for a long moment. It makes the eagle—Frank—very queasy, very nervous, but she just keeps staring with those narrowed blue eyes and he stares back, and eventually she blinks. Her finger raises and she itches, slowly, at her nose, staring at him intently the entire time.

"You remind me of something. I can't remember what, but you remind me of something, and for the life of me I can't remember."

Her flamboyant new friend takes a step back. He's understandably nervous, or annoyed: probably a little both. "Well, _then_! What a child!"

"Uh huh... uh huh." She nods, transfixed. Her hand falls back to her side, fingers neatly entwined in her lap.

Frank decides to leave it at that. Not another word as he steers around, loping off somewhere away from their strange sky-girl. Oh, no doubt the rumor mill is churning.

As the sun rises and rises to its peak, Lyla lifts off from her grassy seat. She's not sure just where to go and eventually leans toward their coffee shop. It's a nice little place. Sure, she's broke, but it's a nice little place, and a quiet one too. Dang, if only Andrew was around so he could buy her a cup or something. Dang it, Wherford. Dang it, Lyla, for never having bells on her.

She eases into a spot by the booth. Taking a peculiar glance toward the girl, the reddish husky of the two dogs shifts from his spot by the door. His gaze flickers from out the window. He darts into the little booth area and pulls a cup from its hanging peg, and he asks in a softly sharp voice without looking, "What would you like?"

Oh, gosh. "Ummmm... I... auhh... I-I dunno, do you give out free hot waters?"

A shrug, a smirk hiding behind the back of the husky. "Oh, sure." He goes off toward the sink, messing with the fobs, adjusting water heat.

Lyla stays there in her silence for a bit of time. She waits on her hot water, and when it arrives she stuffs it in between her hands.

"Oh!"

An ear flicks back on the husky. "Mm?"

"Ah, sorry!" She waves him off. "It's just... warmer than I expected."

Cold and pale and tiny hands grasp at the cup. They touch it and dart back, and try to hold it again. Those big aquamarine eyes watch, head slowly nodding off.

A wolf enters the shop; the bell dingles on the edge. He slides into his usual seat—or he would, if there wasn't some girl sitting there. Ah, dang, it's that weirdo, the one that fell from the sky or whatever. He awkwardly takes the chair to her left. She's too busy spacing out to notice but he gives her a good glare before turning to the booth. "Usual," he mutters, voice deep and flat—a rough old tone, he.

Dark eyes risk another glance at the girl. His fur is a nice dark gray and thick and a little spiky. He's in a black shirt, black jacket matching, and black jeans too, because to not would ruin the entire look. He mutters, "Heh," once or twice, head tilted a bit, staring. Shaking his head some at her.

"Who are you?

She doesn't hear him. He clears his throat. "Ahh—excuse me, _what is your name_?"

One second, two seconds, three seconds, four. She turns and blinks. "Oh um... hi. E-Er... Lyla, nice to meet you." She kinda stares for a moment, eyes foggy. "Umm... oh. You..?" Blink, blink. She lifts a hand toward her face, then stops to think about it, and she lets it fall back to her cup.

He peers at it.

Hot water. Nice.

"My old man, he called me Sword." She nods slowly. Sword shifts in place, his gray tail flickering behind him. "I've bin livin' here for round ten er so years now, moved when I was eighteen." She nods again, almost like it means something to her. "An' I made some friends. Whitney. You see her? She's the white wolf followin' ol' Andrew around. Tries to keep 'im tidy, euh?" Soft laughter. Head tilted back.

Thinking of Whitney always warms his face. "Well, anyways. She's a sweet'un, gotta say, Whitney. We hang out some... she's helped me with a lot of things." He blinks softly, eyes boring through the ceiling and into another world. "Lots and lots. You know? Don'chu have that, Lyla? Some'un like that?"

Her nodding halts after a short pause in his words. Her mind works, the eyes turn, she's thinking, thinking. She looks like the kind that was always slow, but at the same time there's an edge that suggests it wasn't always like this. Slowly, slowly, the cogs turn, and slowly she proffers another nod. "Yeah... at least, I like to think so."

"Well that's good. You be sure you do, hrrmkay?" Sword's nodding with, though his eyes don't fall anywhere near her.

She giggles softly. "Hrrrmkay..! Eheh."

His coffee comes. Mocha, as it always is. Mocha, no milk, lots of sugar. Lyla asks, big eyed, about the contents. Her nose kinda wrinkles at the mention of milk.

"What, chu lactose intol'?"

"Naw."

He guffaws at the disdain written plainly on her face. "You don' change, do you? Ahahh... I hope not."

Then there's some confusion, too. Sword laughs again.

They stay like that for some time. He glances back at the girl as he's pulling out his wallet, at those big blue eyes; then with a sigh he asks for another mocha, no milk, lots of sugar. Pushes it toward her when it comes, slaps the bells onto the wooden booth.

"Listen, Lyla. I bin hearin', you see."

She nearly snaps through the air. Big blue eyes, very big. Clouds permeate but there is a core, and her core is a strong one.

"I bin hearin' all kindsa things bout'chu, an' one of those things really stuck out to me. Lyla, I gotta know, are you from _there_? Er..." He titters, "From Wherford, that bein'?"

There is no hesitation. She whispers, "Yes," like it's some dangerous secret.

And maybe it is. He's not completely sure. "Well, I have a cousin who lives off in the nearb'ee metropolis, y'see—Wolfclaw, that's it. Name's Skye. Never knew her much, but, you know." A white paw lifts and twirls some in the air. Lyla's nodding and sipping at her coffee between nods. "I think I heard the name pass around once, or twice, or something over there. You should check it out.

His voice lowers. "Now I ain't sayin' that this is gonna get'chu anywhere, or nowhere for that mat'. But it's something, hrrmkay? It's somethin'. So, ah... you try your best out there, li'l Lyla. Cuz if you so wanna get back, then, well, you prolly should."

Emotions reflect from his eyes to hers. Lyla's shaking a little.

Reluctantly, he pulls back out his wallet. "Errh... you migh' need this. Don—Don'chu go an' spend it all in one place, hrrmkay?!"

Not too many bells, but enough to lighten his wallet a bit. He winces some at the sight of it, but she might need the money, certainly more than him, and there is no way he's taking off his jacket for her. At least with that she can go buy one, or something, and some food too. The trains here don't usually cost you much, but hey, she looks pretty broke. She might need it.

She snatches the coins, eyes wide and incredulous. Her fingers clench and unclench like she's expecting it to go away.

"You go do what you gotta do, Lyla. I'll let Andrew know you gotta place to be, so, ah... good luck?"

By tomorrow the buzz about her will wilt, and by next week, who knows. Maybe she'll be but a memory, a bit of fun to poke at, something they'll tell their children one day in the future: if you don't eat your vegetables, the sky-girl will come and get you!

Maybe by the end of it he'll be well-stocked all over again and he won't even remember the girl. Not her name, not her face, not a thing about her.

But maybe he won't. Either way is alright, he supposes. The big bright burst of mirth within her sends her skittering through the cafe and out its doors and with the dingling of the bell she's gone, gone, going somewhere far away from here.

He hopes he gets that feeling again, of watching the little girl go, of knowing he's made a difference in someone else's life.

It's a nice feeling.

 ***Sword is an OC created by the user Prince Moon! Thanks very much!**


	88. A Light with Long Arms

A Light with Long Arms

Landing into the metropolis her new buddy Sword called Wolfclaw sends a new splash of reality onto her face. Kind of like a slap across the cheek, and an ice cube down her back, and a few other things altogether. She's blushing slightly, fingers pinched over her cheeks, over her mouth, like a barrier to the outside world.

Lyla's eyes, shimmering blue, squint into the midst of the fog.

That makes it kinda hard to get a look around at everything, oh, surely. It's a cool mist like a washcloth pressed into her figure, and the entire time she steps off the train station and into the great hulking maze of buildings she gets the feeling she's in a gigantic shower stall.

A gigantic, unending shower stall.

It's about as weird as it sounds. She crosses her arms into her, trying to brave herself headfirst into the storm-like lacy touch. Reminds her of blue hands groping about her, clinging with the fog, with the icy mist, and that makes her think of Jaxk. In another weird hard-to-explain and awkward-to-put manner, she misses him. Yeah...

Her head raises within the vicinity of the buildings reaching for the stars. Her bare feet ache, slapping into the concrete with each wet step. She considers touching her stash of bells; at the same time she really doesn't want to. She cherishes Sword's gift more than she should, not wanting to use it but hold it forever.

Although that's stupid. Bells were made for spending.

Okay—okay. But not at an expensive store.

She scours the signs hanging from all sides of the city, into big gaudy words yelling in her face about neon-green restaurants and massages she _can't_ pass up on. Simply too good to be true jewelry and perfected arts in makeup; a few hostels too, and some new stores, and a strange amount of neon rallying cries for... food. Most especially doughnuts.

She's a little hungry just staring at them... but that's probably not such a good idea. Besides, she's practically lived off of fruit for a few months now and that much sugar may or may not send her reeling.

A modest retail slot takes her sight. She crosses the street over to it, bustling into someone and awkwardly tossing an apology over her shoulder. Inside she picks out a nice and big old coat—patched, sure, but cheap—as well as a pair of boots. Fuzzy boots. Cheap boots, very. Putting these on and paying makes her a little too warm then, but hey, better than her thin white dress. She's got that on beneath, and its sudden new sense of company and belonging must baffle it almost as much as she.

Stepping outside, she sits down along the curb. She's muttering to herself a little, gaze cast along the street, further down than those eyesores of signs.

"Hoo... oh."

She pinks.

"Oh no. Now—Now what? I-I... did he... auhh, he said he had a cousin living here but I can't e-even begin to imagine who or what or... ahhhh... d-d-dang it..."

Flustered, she pulls her hands into her head.

"Think, think, think, Lyla... o-ohh surely there's a way to go right about this... ummm... mmnng..."

Because that's how it usually goes, her mind wanders on its well-trodden path back to Wherford. There was only like ten people living there, but still... still! They had a way of showing new villagers and the like around, right? And then there was Shoeland, with their kind mayor who offered the guest bed...

She breathes heavily, eyed lidded. "Ah... Okay... okay. They—They gotta have a central point in here s-somewhere, right..? Mmmmnnh..." Her head droops again. "I... I should ask someone. Y-Yeah, I'd better ask someone. Just the first pedestrian—y-yeah, I'll go ask right now."

She gets up— _clop clop—_ and, true to her word, stops herself right in front of the first person she lays eyes on, and this person just so happens to be a blue-skinned hippo. He doesn't look all that happy for the opportune moment.

"Um!" she squeaks, "h-hello! M-M-My name is Lyla a-and I'm new here and I don't know where I'm going!" Freezing for a moment, she glances at him and he looks back, eyebrows raising. With a snort he starts on—she grapples onto his trench coat. "N-No wait! Please! I-I-I need your help!" Her voice cracks with that last word; her heels dig into the pavement.

Of course, her weight hardly matters to the hippo, but he stops, albeit grudgingly, anyways.

"D-Do you have, like... I-I don't knoooow... ummm... a-a central... um... a town hall... or... or a mayor or... or something?" Eyes darting wildly. Staring at this poor, confused, annoyed hippo who just wants to get back home after a long day of work.

Slowly he swallows. Pulls at the tie round his neck. Sighs. "Yes," a deep and low and strangely alluring tone, "yes. We _do_ have... something, er, of the sort. A few of them who... keep watch." His stubby hippo hand extends and twirls like a punctuated something, er, of the sort. "Keep going forward until you hit Shade Avenue. There's a big building over there."

Shouldering his trench coat, and with a polite tip of the hat, he dissolves back into the street of people.

Lyla exhales softly. A finger goes to her cool moist cheek and stays there for a while.

Then she goes on, shouldering her own weight into the mist. Muttering beneath her breath _shade, shade, shade, shade_ in time with her steps. Looking up compulsively every two seconds, eyes big and wide, searching for the little tag on the stick at the ends of each street for shade, shade, shade, shade.

It's a bit of walking, and a lot of sad old buildings. She begins to note, lifting her head more and more often with the longer it takes, that a lot of them have marks in them, colorful marks like drawings or paintings or something. They're not all pretty and kind, but she likes them all the same. Nice little colors out of nowhere.

She's got her hands thick in her pockets, a fist curled around the rest of her change.

As evening approaches, the sky lights up, and with it the shadows of the buildings. Big, massive creatures, she's reminded of dinosaurs and mammoths. Old beauties who walked the earth some time very very long ago... her fingers extend into the dying rays.

A final shadow cascades upon her, one big and holding of great presence. She looks up slowly, with great care, at the skyscraper meeting her face for the first time. Streaked in color, in light, in great form and value and worth, she struggles looking up at the thing.

Her head tilts. So close to the the forest on the other side, too. Where the sidewalk ends... where the gravel loosens up and disappears into weeds, grass, cloves of interwoven green. Where the streetlights die, where only the sun touches ways.

Lyla stares back at the building, gathers all her courage, and trots across the street.

She finds a small group of vendors gathered about the building, so she uses a bit more of Sword's gift for oranges, apples, lots of peaches. Hmm—she plucks one of the fuzzy pinks. Deli loves peaches. Yeah, doesn't he. Always talked about them and tended to bring them one each in the night.

And finally she goes off into the building. Deep breaths, deep breaths. "O-Okay, okay... I-I-I can do this." Fists full of fruit and gold coins, she hasn't felt better stocked in a good long freakin' while. Her coated shoulders bunch, and her face is bright and full, and off she goes again, into the face of the unknown.


	89. So it Reaches Everyone

So it Reaches Everyone

Sometimes he'd ask the little doe.

"Fauna... where do you think our world is going?"

She'd look up at him, big caramel eyes, and she'd think about it. Her forehead would bunch somewhat and her hooves would come together in front of her, and she'd think all kinds of things. Her blushing pink face would return to this world, and she'd murmur, "Somewhere happy."

That was his favorite part. Asking and hearing that answer, again and again and again. Yeah, it's ridiculously simple, but it's a nice and simple thing, a warm feeling in his fluttery chest. He was out of his sweatpants and sweatshirts—well, for the most part—instead choosing his long-saved button-up crisp-white shirts. He loves shirts that button up, loves them with a passion. They have nice material and they look good on him. And they remind him of famous conductors across the ages.

So they matched now. She in her manilla tank dress; he in his long-sleeved button-ups and simple pants. When they strolled around their town, they caught this air of pristine nobility. Freya would comment on it. Say, "Oh, goodness, there they go again, 'King and Queen of the Beauty Pageant'." But she said it each time with a smile.

"Jay?" softly she asks him. The bird turns to the little doe. "Jay... um..." Her gentle voice cracks a little under the thought of it. "Why... Why does it feel safer? Um... Thinking about it... and thinking about it too much... that makes me scared. I-I feel like it's not real... or that there's no reason for us to be safe now."

He'd match her with a little grin. "We don't know yet, do we, Fauna? But..." Lowering himself, planting a wing over her chest. "Your heart thinks that it's safe here, doesn't it? At least... it _feels_ safe. And, ah, I think there's a reason."

"Mmh!" She nods, giddy.

Jay nods too. "Right. It didn't feel this safe a week ago, two weeks ago, three. But now it does... so I think it means something. Auhh, maybe that's just me, or just you, or something, but I can't help it and I hope."

He looks away. Fauna looks with him, into the soft oblivion of daylight. She mouths his last part, _I can't help it and I hope_ , over her lips. Her little golden hoof reaches out and takes the wing in front of her.

"Maybe," she whispers, "maybe it's like a game... Maybe there's a sign. And maybe once we see the sign, and once we realize that it is a sign, then maybe we'll know."

Jay, turning back, nods to the doe. "Yes... I like that. Maybe then we'll know." He smiles, and then she smiles too. And then they're smiling at each other.

And then Nibbles trundles on by. "Ohhhh my gosh! What is this! Public display of affection! Jay! Fauna! PDA MUCH?"

She sends blush all across the jaybird and the spotted doe into bits of giggling tizzies.

The squirrel has dressed brightly today—like any day—in her red dress, this one with a nice green trim and black spots about the chest and the hem. Glancing toward it, Jay is reminded of a watermelon. "Wow... it's kinda crazy," she mutters, big eyes glazed. "It took you what, a week, to get all this close? Man. Romance is weird." Her nose crinkles up with that last word.

"Y-You have a boyfriend yourself," squeaks Jay, head down. Fauna giggles again—how _supportive._

Their short, turquoise-furred friend merely shrugs. "And?"

Jay's eyes narrow. "C-Come on... you've been through this too! You _are_ in this too! Y-You can stop giving me s-s-such a weird look now!"

He can't help it. He gets nervous. He's never shown much of this side before, not to anyone, and the thought of it nearly causes him to trip and cascade into the mud all over again—all over his nice and pristine clothes.

Despite all of her flaws and despite her small stature, Fauna is his anchor, and he stays aloft. Tittering, he smirks at himself, at the pinnacle of this time and he's this bird, this sad, sad bird who can't fly. Although he supposes he doesn't have much to compare to; Lucha can't either. Lucha... oh, the poor thing.

Recalling his sad red friend sends a bit of a shock over his face, and seeing that makes Nibbles queasy in turn. His girlfriend looks on, a little worried, a little hopeful.

"Why is it so easy to remember him," she mutters, ducking down, fiddling with the edges of her green-rimmed dress, anything, anything, "auhh, why indeed. I feel horrible thinking about him in such esteem but then at the same time you can't help it, can you? Heh. It's not fair that he's... still..."

Jay blinks. "Since when have you cared so much about someone..? Um!" He blinks again. "E-Excuse that! That was blunt! I-I mean—I mean—"

"I know, I know." A small smile outfits the squirrel. "I know, Jay, it's alright. And you're right, honestly: since when have I cared—and _me_ , of all people? Heh... and I'm sorry but I don't have an answer to that. I really don't know..." Looking away, the smile evolves into more of a wide, dainty grin.

"So when did you update your wardrobe?"

Jay's face pales. "Aaauhh... I-I should've seen this coming..."

The squirrel merely giggles in turn, batting her hand toward him. Even so, there is a great curiosity in her eyes, and a great wonder lay within, waiting.

"Um... well..." He coughs. "U-Um... When I was younger... I had this problem with my school being too, uh, geared toward... sports. And... a lot of the big, brutish bully types were very into this. And they liked to beat up kids who weren't. So... I... forced myself to... and then I got too scared to..."

She's nodding, transfixed. "But... then what happened to your foot, if you were doing so well before?" It's not a rude question, or an untimely one... she just wants to know, wants to understand.

Perhaps hearing bits and pieces of conversation, perhaps not, a certain fluffy yellow dog nears. Her big blue eyes take in the scene, and, glancing at Nibbles, who shrugs, nods, the bird goes on.

"Umm... well... I ended up with track. I-I didn't know what to choose. I chose track, you know. Lots of hurdles, lots of running—I-I mean lots... so it'd make sense that I'm a good runner now, o-or something... but, well... I ran too much and pushed too hard and I sprained something, and then I didn't rest and... well. D-Did you know," he squeaks, trying to play it down, "that if you use the sore muscles in your body, especially foot, after being damaged, for too much, especially without elevation, that it can cause per-permanent damage?"

It's not a big thing, but it's there. A wistful smile about his bill.

The girls watch, forlorn.

Isabelle's big eyes color with recognition. Nibbles is quiet, nodding, wincing. It makes him wonder if maybe they all were hurt in some way before... coming here. Yeah... maybe.

In turn Fauna pulls her little arms about the bird, and she mumbles into his chest, "Th-That's okay..! E-Even if you were missing your whole foot, or it was worse, or it was just... the same! I-I still love you, a lot... anyways."

He nearly can't hold himself together.

There's something about it, something about those words that gives him a wonderful, soothing truth in his heart. It placates his woes and it assuages his worries until he can take in deep breaths and try to be satisfied with himself. It's okay now... it's okay.

Isabelle's eyes are big, very big, and she nods with a little grin. And, smiling, she turns back off into the foliage.


	90. Far and Near

Far and Near

Man, Lyla is a lucky girl. At least... well. Right _now_ she is. Hah. Casually brushing away old memories. Haaaaah.

Upon entering the great dome known as the "Top Tier" around here, or something, and dodging around other little vendor shops, she finds herself at the front of a carpet and into the booth labeled "Front Office" very boldly in black. It's an old koala who looks like there's places in his head he's looking down on, plucking at a half-eaten sandwich beside him as if to say _now? really_?

"Oooookay." With a long sigh—and a belch followed—without apology—okay then—the koala skims at a screen in front of him, then at the girl, then plops a pair of glasses on his face. "Uhh... name?"

Lyla's looking back at the vendors. "Huh? Um?"

"Oh come on." Obvious irritants grate the gray koala's words, but he stays waiting and doesn't rub at her anymore.

He coughs. She starts, then looks back at the vendors again. Sighing, the koala massages his forehead. "Yeah, okay." He's got a sharp and punctuated tone with sloping curves. "I know, they're weird. It's a Wolfclaw thing, okay? We have so many people here that you know what, not everyone's gonna be fit for the suit-and-tie job, and you know what, there are idiots out there who will go _anywhere_ to get out of it.

Snort. Eyeroll. "Whatever. They're missing out."

This of all things attracts Lyla's attention. "Ahh, so you're one of those guys!"

"What?" A grimace punctures his lip."What the heck?" Shaking his head, tittering.

"Yeah!" Lyla's nodding, as this makes perfect sense. "You like order and neatness and stuff, and—and suits and ties!"

The koala has to restrain himself from picking up his desktop and chucking it at the girl. She's not the first one—rows and rows of duct tape keep it in place, and if you look close enough you can see little puncture holes where he very nearly succeeded in his own idiotic goal. "Oooookay then. So." He was done with this conversation ten seconds ago. "Again, now I ask: Name?"

"Lyla!"

Ahh, finally, an answer. If only that made the clock tick faster. As much as he loves his graveyard shift, it's full of... of... He squints. Of floofy-haired bimbos. Yeah, that.

"So... 'Lyyyla'." He rolls his eyes again, pawing at his sandwich. He begins nibbling at it as he goes on. "Shooh, what're ya doin here, Laaaiiiyluh?"

She's nodding, looking a little like she wants a bite of his sandwich. Well screw her. She should get her own sandwich. "Um, I'm looking for a...a... Skye!"

"Shhkai, shhkai... hey, it's right above ya! Don't come all the way here fer—"

"No no no! Skye! The wolf! The person!" Her cheeks are red. A little mortified. Hands flailing in front of her.

"Auuhh. Wellsh. I dink dey live in... eruhhh"—he checks his computer with one hand, the other holding his sandwich as he eats—Shhkai, Shhkai... Auhh, in... auhh—what de heuk? Dey're literally dree streets ferward, edge of towhn, just beferr the ferrust... euhhh, numbah dree-tew-noin, end of Abe Stroooit, righ' ova noit', den sout'."

Loud, loud munching. Crumbles go all over his keyboard, his desk, his hands, everywhere but the plate.

Lyla tries to divulge this. "Oooohkay... Number three-two-nine, end of Abe Street... umm, where's Abe Street again?"

Pause. "I jus' said, it's noit', den sou—ohhhh, wait, no no..." He licks at one hand, keys clacking beneath the other. Bits of sandwich sprinkle beneath him. "Noit' moar, so jus' get outta here an' turn righ', den"—swallow—"theennn... ah! So get out, turn right, then keep going right til you get to the forest, and once you're there turn right again, then just going right til you run into the little house cluster. Three-two-nine, number three-two-nine."

With a final burp, he brushes his crumbs over the edge of his desk and pulls from beneath a heavenly-smelling pie. "Now scram. I have business, and so do you."

She takes one more gigantic look at that gigantic apple pie, the koala slowly and methodically unwrapping it, and she darts out of the chamber before her stomach starts growling.

Lyla pulls out one of her oranges after leaving, then turns immediately right. With the timed peeling and the picking of the orange, she'll mutter, _right, right, three-two-nine_ in trial to remember what he told her... because, well, forgetting would be very bad. And for the first time in her life, she really cares about whether or not she loses this memory.

Her heart thumps painfully in her chest.

A-And a few others now, too.

Right, right, three-two-nine. She reaches the edge of town again, where the sidewalk ends and where the streetlamps die, and she goes right, and she runs off further and further and further until she reaches these adorable hutch-like homes and, sure enough, three-two-four, three-two-five—there! The one with the carpet-like top full of knitted color, the one with the sky-blue wolf sitting and crocheting in front of it, on a little rocking chair that she might've made herself.

A sky-blue wolf is very likely to be named Skye.

Her—Her paws are even white, like Sword's—and hey, their names sorta match! Sure, cousins don't always have matching names, but they kinda do, and that's really cool!

Frantic, Lyla darts off to the wolf in front of the house, her orange smushed to pulp in her hand. She frantically tosses it and keeps on running, and not until she can see the wolf in the semi-darkness of approaching night does she stop. Huffing, huffing, wiping her pulpy-orange hand on her leg, huffing a little more.

"I"—gasp—"I"—gaaaaasp—"I've been looking"— _gyaasssspp—_ "fo-for youhh..!" Cough, cough, cough cough. Her face is red and a little streamy, a bit of snot, a bit of clear fluid tearing down her cheeks.

Skye, nervous, sits up from her work, plants her crochet to the floor, and pulls Lyla into her rocking chair. Above her sweater is a small dark shawl, and a long skirt sways with her movements. "Um, hello! Rather nice to meet you!" She tries for a smile. "Ahh, who are you, exactly?"

Curious, her husband tips his head out from their front door, strolling up to the blue wolf and pulling his arm around her shoulders.

"Skye? Who's this?"

She stares blankly toward the girl nearly unconscious by this point. "I—I don't know. She said she was looking for me." Her head tilts. "Edon... who would be looking for me?"

"An idiot, if she thinks she's getting past me."

Skye playfully bats at the red-furred wolf. One of his yellow paws takes hers, and his soft blue eyes come near. "I'm not joking, you know."

"Oh, come on, Edon, look at her! She must be a bit of a wreck by this point, if she's fallen asleep in the chair... especially so quickly. Say...

"Do you think this is the girl Camofrog kept mentioning in his letters?"

Edon shrugs, looking away. He dons a dark jacket and darker clothes in comparison to his wife's; they fit snugly together. "Maybe. She acts like it... and look it too, I guess. Real curly hair, a ridiculous dress... whoa, look at her pockets."

They note the great mass of peaches, apples, and oranges stowed away within her coat.

Skye, giggling, bats at her husband again. "Ah, I'm sure she's alright. We can ask her more in the morning... or, ah, whenever she gets up. Eheh..."

Quiet again.

Edon whispers, "Where was it Camofrog moved to again? I can't remember the town name..." He has a deep and gruff voice, yet soft and soothing nevertheless.

"Wherwarf? Ah, no, that's stupid..." Her husband chuckles; his wife pinks. "I-I'm trying..! Whenton... uhhh... Shoela—wait, no... oh, geez, maybe we should just get the letter after all. I'm sure it's written on there somewhere."

Edon shakes his head. "No—No, Skye, wait." She does. "What was it... Wherford, I think? Maybe she's from there too... I wonder."

"Oh!" The blue-furred wolf blinks. "Oh—Edon! Then maybe she came to see... him! He used to live there, you know. Until he left and came here. But it's funny... why leave an apple orchard for a metropolis if all you do is start another one?"

He shrugs. "I guess we'll ask him when she wakes up."

They leave the girl on the porch and enter their house.

As night gouges into day and the call of morning softens in the air, food is prepared inside of the house. Just pancakes, but Skye really likes pancakes, so you know. Maybe it's the scent, it's probably the scent, but whatever it is it brings their guest, groggy and bleary, into their house. They give her fresh-cooked from-scratch pancakes and she eats heartily, unearthing a few of her fruit, which she also eats, and leaves a few with the hinting of "gift" untouched upon the table.

Eventually they ask her, when she's rather full, "So... what is it you're doing here?"

"Oh, um... Sword—I think he's your cousin, Skye... I ah... I found him, after getting lost on my way home... and he said that he'd heard about the town I was looking for from you once or twice... and that maybe—um—maybe you could help me?" Her big, aquamarine eyes shove hope into their faces. She's very awake now.

"Where, exactly?" politely asks Skye. She's in a tank top today, another long skirt—this a cobalt—covering all the way down past her feet.

Lyla's hoping, oh, hoping: "Um... you've heard of Wherford, right?"

Recognition. She relaxes—oh... gosh, thank goodness.

 ***Edon is an OC made by Wolf Mark! He and Skye both show up in their animal crossing story! Thank you very much!**


	91. With Unimaginable Depth

With Unimaginable Depth

It turns out that they have to go through the forest to find just who exactly Lyla is looking for. That goes past all her senses of right and wrong, but whatever. If it'll help with her journey to Wherford, then she better. Right? She'd do anything to go back again...

Through the forest and past branches, up a long, winding, well-trodden road, deep within the confines of this forest there is a cottage. Small, but not modestly small in any way, a good small, a nice small, suitable for the single one living within it. His friends are few, hardly extending out of their little hutch-home village of sorts, but he is a happy man—and old, too.

They warn the little Lyla that he may not be feeling his best. As his days become numbered, they're sort of waiting for whenever the back pain or teeth pain or whatever it is shows up.

Lyla stares at them, a mortified expression torn through skin.

"Oh! Ah, he's not _dying_ , say, but one only lives so much longer after his hard, long life. He's worked much on farms and planting things, and even though we've taken over that labor, you can tell when you look at him that he's just been through all kinds of things."

Curiously, the girl whispers, "And how old is he?"

"Not that old yet," Skye returns in a similarly lowered voice, "I think he's still sixty-three, right Edon?"

The wolf smirks. "Yeah, somewhere round there." He bats a hand, catches a branch, and moves on after the two pass him. It's silly, he muses, how easily his wife grew childish again with the girl. Thinking about it, and the fact that she's not with her parents or any of the sort, she can't be much older than twenty...

It's a sweet thing. A sweet little thing... makes him chortle a bit in the back of his throat.

Skye's bright blue eyes turn back to him, and he follows.

At the front of the cottage is a large brown door. Edon takes the knocker in his fuzzy yellow paw.

 _PON, PON PON._

They wait, breathing quietly and otherwise silent.

A little more. A little more.

 _Crrrrrrrrrhhhhh..._ With the creak and the swing of the door, a warm brown face meets the trio. His bespectacled face twinkles, his fuzzy white eyebrows crinkling over his warm smile. Atop a nice coat his flippers fold together, and with a kindly grandpa-like smile he utters: "Oho! Why, good morning!"

Okay. Lyla has to stop here. Okay—Ooookay, never before, no, never in her life has she ever heard a voice this deep before. Camofrog's outweighed oceans: well _this_ , _this_ voice, _this_ outweighs _Camofrog_.

Sorry man. She's a little guilty about tossing him into the puddles like that, but okay, _this_. She just takes in that kindly old man voice and that kindly old man face and realized quite readily that there is nothing quite like it. And man, that's a great thing. Because this guy, oh man, he is great.

The sea lion lets the three in and closes his old door behind him with a creak and a loud noise. It's... heavy, isn't it. She decides not to ask how many years on the farm it took him to get that... strong. And it's not even a muscular-bicep-bodybuilder strong. It's a heart strong, a will strong, and yeah, it's a bit of muscle too, but he's not... he's not like that, not one of those big beefy... you know. A real kindness sneaks in between the wrinkles on his face.

Makes Lyla's heart all warm and happy.

A short hallway leads off into the dining area, a long table perched in the middle with chairs of all types lined around it. Apparently this doubles as a sitting room, because the sea lion gestures and the wolves tilt for the seats—after Edon grabs Lyla and pulls her over, introduces her to the old man.

"She lives in Wherford, and I guess she's trying to get back there."

"Oho... Wherford." His glasses sparkle some, with a bit of smile on his bewhiskered face. "I recall that place. I never thought that somebody would move back in there after I left it, let alone name it such a cute, dorky name. Ahahaha..." With a doff of the head he goes into a back room, muttering something about refreshments.

They wait in a comforting silence for the old man to return. Edon, smirking, tells Lyla that his name is Phineas and he's probably the strangest and yet most enticing person you can meet. The red wolf says this with a bit of a sparkle in his gaze, a bit of a smile upon his lips, nodding ever so softly.

Skye smiles by his side. "I always liked Phineas. He's a good man... and I'm happy he can help you. I'm happy we could help you find him..! Eheh—If anyone can get you home, it'd be Phineas," she too speaks with a bit of nostalgia in her eye, like he's come to aide before, like this old man was once great and empowering, almost like a leader.

Tilting back in her cushioned chair, Lyla's head spins. She'd believe it. Oh, for sure. She's met all kinds of people, all kinds of weird and loving and powerful and distant people, and she'd believe that there is naught but a heart of gold within that Phineas. It's a nice thought, one that gives ease to the heart, lets it rest for a moment.

When Phineas returns—with these little sugar-free biscuit things and tea, with more than enough sweetness to make up for it—they talk, just softly, about soft little things. He has this strange affinity for apples, especially orchards. He asks Lyla if she'd realized that their "forest" in Wolfclaw was in actuality the orchard itself..! And _no_ she didn't, what the heck! That's—That's almost too much.

But they love what they do, and they must love their trees ever so, for them to be so tall and bountiful... a different kind of beauty.

"Aah... I left our dubbed Wherford when times began to change. Quite some time. As, you know, Animal's Crossing went into effect, I think that was it. Ah..." His face shadows, a grave frame for a reality far away from this one. "It was... frightful, at times, and I thought I'd be safer in another place."

Safer elsewhere—ahhhh.

She smiles at the table, nodding.

"Ah, I'm sure you understand, girl. Now... may I ask you, what is it that brought you to Wherford, and what is it that had you leave?"

Within the embrace of a warm old cottage, she tries to start her tale. And she wants to tell it, too, to gentle Skye and sharp Edon and Phineas, the grandfather of it all. Now her story... it's a long one, and a strange one, but she tries anyways, and it's not until the end of her trial with Jaxk that she can finish. Her heart like a watering can is full and full of memories, and she has to tip them out and let them flow, she must let them go.

And so she does.

They smile at her comments on Jay's awkward change, they wince with Camofrog and his bleak, black paintings, they cheer for Lucha when he tries to stand up for something and ultimately falls, and they love to hear about the bold and enchanting Freya.

Her words turn her friends into heroes and heroines off to save the world from desolation; her smile brightens their outlooks of downcast, their sad old ways. She closes her eyes and imagines a Nibbles who can stand up without falling, stand up on her own; a Julian full of never-ending sparkle; a Fauna who looks into herself and sees just what she loves inside.

And within these words, she hopes she will see them again. It's okay... if they fell. If they didn't manage in the end. That's not what she wants. She likes them all the same. But each story adding up to the end, each piece helps build her up and ask them for help, to help her find her way home again.

It's okay... to be stupid. It's okay to be flawed. And it's not always a bad thing, not always a failure. No... not at all.


	92. Not just You

Not just You

"Now Lyla, may I ask..." Phineas tilts his head toward the girl, forehead bunched in thought. "How... long was this excursion of yours?"

Just curiously.

His deep voice takes a moment to dawdle before seeping into sturdy stone walls. Lyla doesn't move until his booming murmur has dispersed, then her eyes fog somewhat. A whiteness traces along her cheeks, pulled as if by resisting strings, and she struggles, wrestles with the thoughts in her head. She bites into her lip and pulls her fingers together.

Finally manages a word. "U-Um..!" Very squeaky, not at all lacking in pitch. Skye and Edon share a look; Phineas doesn't shift much, though his glasses flash. A bit of a shift settles in him, and he softly rephrases the question: "Do you have any idea how long you've been living in Wherford?"

"U-Um," she gives again. Cheeks redden. "It's, ah—it's not.. confidential or anything... but I... um..." Oh, her goodness, how does she tell _anyone_ something like this? "It's... gahh...

Hard to explain. It's hard to explain. "A long time, I guess. I mean... probably only a couple months, one or two or three, but... but it wasn't... it..."

Oh, curse her failing words. Confound these questions she can't even answer.

The wolves share another knowing look of concern.

Phineas pulls his glasses off his face—revealing two beady dark eyes—and pulls a cloth out from his pocket, and absentmindedly he cleans them. Nodding, subtly, to something only he can hear. "Okay, Lyla. If I can ask... what was Wherford like, when you entered?"

"Umm... sad." She shrugs. "October, I guess, I dunno. It was pretty October-y, but like... the grass and stuff was all soggy and green. Misty. A lot... and, ah... Halloween. Yes, it was very, very Halloween." Well. Until it wasn't. But if she went in and tried to explain that misconception...

She wonders if maybe this isn't something other people can comprehend... if maybe it's one of those things that you only understand if you were there. There's people like that, people who couldn't possibly exist, who bend the mind in ways that shouldn't be deemed "righteous" or whatever. Yeah... like... like really, _really_ smart people... and great leaders of old... and... auh, right, duh, the guy who started Animal's Crossing, What's-His-Name!

And, for sure, they watch with a kind of interest that can't quite find its way through its maze to reason. A well-worn trail that stops at a wall, that's her story.

Then again, Jaxk defies pretty much _everything_. So. You know. How do you put guy-with-mystic-crazy-possibly-immortal-power into simple, clean-cut nouns? Hah. You don't. Lyla's no literature fanatic, but...

Aw, dang it. Freya must've known this too well. Dang it, Lyla, stop being stupid.

A spark touches the sea lion's eye. He lays his spectacles on the table, shifting back and standing up a bit.

"Well." His deep voice snaps the attention of the wolves back upon the conversation. "I must say that your journey can't probably... ah, what's the word... can't be framed, I guess, by our minds. But even so... it sounds like you've been through quite a lot of fantastic things, and I think that I would like to go with you on this journey of yours back home."

This isn't taken well.

Skye slams to her feet first, blue cheeks somewhat purple. "Ph-Phineas! You're certainly in no condition for such travel! I-I don't even know where Wherford is! A soul as old as yours needs to rest!"

He raises a fin in compensation; then Edon gets up and mutters something in addition to his wife's words, something half-incomprehensible about annoying old men thinking they know everything.

"I am not senile, may I remind you." Phineas smiles thinly.

Lyla decides to stay in this chair right where she belongs. In fact, she's gonna squeeze even further to it, and maybe if she closes her eyes she'll melt right through the fabric. That would be great. Please.

From narrowed eyes, she watches the sea lion pop his glasses back onto his face, his cloth back into his pocket. A shiny little thing sticks out too—oh, hey, a chain... does he keep a watch on hand? As if he can feel her stare, Phineas plucks at the chain, but he doesn't quite move it.

"Perhaps, yes, it would be foolish for one in a body as old and... 'withered' as I to go on such a tourney. But I am the only one who knows the route, as you said yourself, Skye. And I'm sure after her little testimony we found this girl quite an intriguing sight." Oh—hey that's her—cue the flush. "If she is going to find her way home, and she doesn't know where it is, why, I should probably go with her anyways, yes?"

A shadow collects on the red-furred wolf's face. Edon grunts. "You don't have to go out of your way for such a thing... I mean. Urhh." His muzzle twitches. "She's nice, okay. Not a bad sprout. But besides, if you have such a bad story about the town, then why should you..."—voice dwindles—"even..." He swallows, withdrawing somewhat. Edon's initial surprise and resistance is strongly mirrored in his wife's expression.

Phineas steps closer. His glasses catch a light from the morning. "Of course. I'm not young anymore, and from all I've said about this place, it's... a mess. So." A hand presses into the table: not quite a slam, but a jolt nevertheless. "Why go? _Why_ , I say, why?" But he doesn't answer his own question.

The other hand presses thinly into the cloth. Each crinkle with the pressure and the motion of his fins. Phineas stands in a tweed suit, nicely-tailored, an amber necklace partially-covered by a scarf done about the neck. He's a well-made man, albeit a retired one, and his posture can go strikingly rigid in moments.

It gets Lyla's head swirling with what little condiments are left. Out of everything she'd told them, she goes back to Freya again, to Frita, to Jay, to Lucha... Her head tilts into concentration: how would she fit this creature into a sentence? How would she explain such a heart-pounding moment to them?

Her lips part into a little oh.

She missed whatever he did next, but as far as she can tell the long rectangular table hasn't moved all that much, and while Phineas has stayed just as still, both wolves have shifted further back. The tablecloth is bunched about the sea lion's hand-like fins, and in turn the cloth has bunched around she—as she had sat in front of him. Lyla's face pales considerably.

"I'll come back if I see the need to—a letter, whatever—but do be prepared for the likelihood of my leave. I know that you are all well-off here, and besides, I haven't done much real work in years. I'm sure my disappearance, does it happen, wouldn't effect you all that much.

"Besides," he whispers, voice a hiss, fingers lurching to his glasses and tapping the edge of the rim, "I haven't seen my creation in such a long time. Would it be such a bad thing to go?"

They have no words for that. Lyla's stomach clenches. She thinks about reaching for one of those biscuits but ultimately decides against it.

Her eyes wander along the lines in the tablecloth, pulled and pushed and pulled again.

With a hapless sigh from behind her head, the wolves submit to the sharp eye of the elder. Phineas removes his fin from his glasses and gives a sharp nod. "Right." He swallows. "I trust you live with my decision either way. I like you both, very nice and suitable people. Very indeed..."


	93. Not just Me

Not just Me

The preparation and leave was, remarkably, a very simple matter. Phineas found himself a nice backpack and put in his bells and a few novels and other meager supplies he'd rather keep if he stays in Wherford, and well, Lyla didn't have much of anything in the first place.

From her spot on the seat, she pulls her hood over her face.

The walk all the way to the train station was a long and semi-awkward one. From the huts to the streets, from the streets to the edge of Wolfclaw, to the deep belly of the metropolis. It's palpable the tension between the three older animals; Lyla kept her words to herself, hands to her pockets. She's liked this group of people and would rather keep them liking her, too, if she can. They're nice.

She got a hug out of Skye prior to boarding, her blue friend admitting she'll miss her a little. But not from Edon. He doesn't look the type though, so she won't hold that against him. Nice people. They promise to try to explain Phineas's little trip to the others.

As the wolves walked away, a great man and a little girl to their backs, they talked softly amongst each other.

"Edon, do you wonder what will become of them?"

"Honestly I hope that the town is so horrible they _both_ come back... although I suppose Camofrog still lives there... I'd rather not see him in sorry shape... oh, gag..."

"Maybe I should send a letter to Sword, let him know that his little protege has gotten off alright."

"Yeah, maybe." The fire-furred wolf props a hand on his wife's shoulder; the two work their way through loud Wolfclaw, the thought of a nice home without all this noise placating in their minds along the way.

Lyla's face stays pressed up into the train's glass for the majority of their first leg of the trip before she even considers anything. Then her brain's all like, hey, maybe we should make small talk with the incredible guy somehow _nice_ enough to _go_ with you _aaaalllllll_ the way to Wherford, and she goes, yeah, probably, better, maybe, maybe later I'm tired, but her brain's all, _noooooooo_ , _duuuuuuude_.

So she props herself up and glances toward the sea lion beside her.

"Phineas, um... th-thank you? For coming all this way for me?"

His head bobbles softly. "Ah, yes, of course... mmmh." Messing with the clock in his pocket. "When it starts getting dark and the majority of those with destination nearby are off the train, I'll have to ask our conductor to turn more leftward. Ah..." A yawn accents the edge of his sentence. Lyla's head nods off in sympathy.

"No, but..." She goes back to her original thought. "But... you're going all this way... so... thank you... dude, that's really... really nice of you, like, way too nice of you... to—to help."

When her big aquamarine eyes land on his glasses, there is only a twinkle within. "But of course," he murmurs.

Phineas has a big and old body, and there's wrinkles too, but it just proves that his life has had a lot of mirth in it. Smile wrinkles, laugh wrinkles, those weird eye wrinkles bunched up about. Even so he wears them nicely, and proudly.

Man. Lyla can only dream of aging that well one day. Sea lions have it good.

From her head-smushed place on the glass, she takes note of some of the signs. The day goes on, they take their time resting, and eventually, it just happens that she begins drawing words out of them. No... nothing as shameless as "Butterfly" or "Zoosis" but even so... ah. Oh, gosh.

She jostles in place, waking Phineas. "What is it?"

"Umm!" Lyla splutters something like, "I-I just recognize things!"

He hums a curious note, but he leaves it at that.

Then of course Lyla _has_ to tell him. "I-It's just... my hometown. You know... where I... where I grew up and stuff," she mutters.

"Why did you leave?" Phineas, ever the kind conversationalist, well of course he must ask. His mood sends a bit of blush on Lyla's cheeks.

"Because... Because I couldn't keep living in a place where everyone knew exactly what my, uh, my full potential was, I guess." She lets off in a sigh. "I'll be honest." A town's sign comes and goes. Her focus is lost for a moment. "I-I mean... it was a nice place. And my choosing to leave was of course a very rash choice. But... they all knew me so well. They watched me struggle, knew everything about me, and I knew that if I stayed there... If—If I stayed there...

Her hands lift some, and fall back again. She leaves it off with a glum little pout on her face. "Nothing. I'd be, like, a weed-picker or something. Nothing really useful... more to bide my time away in a town without... without much of anything, I dunno."

"You dunno?" echoes the elder. "Why not? I'm sure you're a remarkably fine girl."

Lyla squeaks. "No! Not really! I-I-I failed and then slowly began to flunk all of my classes! The—The only reason I passed is cuz my parents did my homework and my school couldn't afford to drop me! Not even their stupidest student!"

Phineas is quiet for a time. They both are. By now the sign and the town have long come and gone, and Lyla is relieved. She hasn't spoken to her parents in a long time. Would rather keep it that way. The memory always festers like an old wound when it resurfaces... nnnf.

"Do you really think that?" Quietly, the soft and deep voice of the old man rumbles, and it summons for her thoughts again. Lyla blushes.

"I-I guess so..? I mean... what do I really think?" She drops her soft and low whisper to the clacking of the train on the tracks. Lyla's face is a bit of a mess in confusion.

"I mean—ah, sorry," he goes on gently, "I mean, Lyla... do you really think that it would be worthless to have stayed? Do you really think a 'weed-picker' is a worthless person, in a worthless place?"

She halts.

Head tilts. Lyla mumbles into the table in front of them, "N-No... not really... auhhh, but I—but I just—I-I _mean—_ "

"Yes, yes." Phineas is chuckling then. "I know what you mean. There are magnificent weed-pickers out there, those rather impassioned by their job who certainly love what they do. And I'm sure they feel happy to be where they are, and not useless at all.

His gaze contains one of those old sparks that must've been burning in there for a long, long time. "But," he addles with, "even so, Lyla, that is not your path to take. If _you_ were a weed-picker... you would feel useless and miserable and misunderstood, lonely. That's not you. But it's what they saw in you, no? Your 'nothing'.

"Ah... to be young." A merry twinkle fills up his face. Lyla can't help but be reminded of Christmas lights, Jingle, toys. "To be filled with possibility, ah, to be young. I, Lyla... am a planter... or, so I was. I planted many kinds of seeds. Of course... most of them were apples, but there were others, too. I planted seeds because I wanted to father and create things... and because I wanted to help life grow."

She nods slowly. Swallows.

Phineas turns a bit in his seat, looking into the girl's face. "Maybe you haven't found what doesn't make you useless yet. And that's alright. But I hope that you at least see there is more than to be useless, to be lost and stuck in a world like this. You are not useless, I am not useless, and neither is your everyday weed-picker. We are all important."

Lyla blinks. Then she sighs.

"I wish you were my grandpa..!"

A grin jogs the old man's face, and he chortles. They're silent then, for a time, as Lyla goes back to her window and watches evening dawn, and Phineas pulls out one of his dusty old books. He thinks about starting it, then looks back at the girl, and then he smiles a bit again.

"It would be nice to have a granddaughter as passionate as you are."


	94. Everywhere

Everywhere

Aaaaaaand she's had it up to here.

"Oooookay. I am leaving this house and I am going outside and _neither_ of you are going to disturb me as I _sit_ in _silence_ by _myself_! OKAY?"

Her cousin-of-sorts and the unicorn twitch, nodding awkwardly. Frita takes in one deep breath as she stomps out of her whole and untouched house. Each step ends with the unfortunate _crrrgh_ of bark beneath the foot; each one like a fuse lights the string of annoyance, burning, burning. She has yet to burst but she's about to.

Did Frita ever mention her short temper? Well. It's very, very real. And she doesn't wanna talk about it.

She storms through the wreckage of Wherford and takes a seat by the river, near the north of town, but closer to Lyla's old and abandoned and thoroughly decimated house, as that's where nobody lives now, duh.

She mutters to herself for a good few minutes about the idiocy of boys, especially her cousin.

Julian's alright. It's mostly not his fault, just the fact that he's so _attached_ to Curlos, ullghh! Makes her wanna break something, but their town's already kinda broken. Her thoughts go back to when she tried to run away, and how horribly that happened... and she wonders if it's any different now.

Well, that being said, Isabelle and Digby did walk the whole way to Butterfly, so. Mostly because living arrangements were already so forced, but also as Isabelle's emotional stature is already so dainty and weak, and it must've fractured in, like, ten different places after the ordeal.

Buh, buh, buh. Stupid boys, stupid boys. Aaaaah, they're so annoying sometimes. Okay, yeah, not all boys are, but Curlos is, and he is such a prominent figure in her life that he kind of soils her impressions on other boys because of it. Which isn't an okay thing. But still. He's Curlos.

 _Tmp, tmp, tmp, tm—_

"WHICH ONE OF YOU WAS STUPID ENOUGH TO COME AFTER ME? OH I SWEAR, CURLOS!"

Ah. Wait. That's not her buttheaded sheep at all. Or the unicorn, either. Ah. Frita swallows a mouthful of her spite and stands up a bit, shifting in place. Harshly-cut amethyst eyes take in the sight in front of her.

The pink-furred dear has her arms folded over her chest, jacket drooping about her. She looks both wet and frigid at the same time. Frita snorts. "Oh, sorry Freya, I thought you were... well, you know." She tries not to yell at her too, but it's very tempting...

"Uhhh-huh?" The wolf smirks. "No of course not. What is it with that twitch in your eye, anyways? What did they do this time?"

Ah screw it. Screw holding back. Frita tips back her head and she yells.

"WHEN DID IT BECOME ANY SORT OF _YOUR_ PROBLEM? HUH, FREYA? DOES THIS SOUND LIKE A _YOU_ PROBLEM OR IS IT _MINE_? ARE YOU GONNA KEEP STICKIN' YOUR NOSE INTO _MY_ BUSINESS?" She leans in. "HUH?"—more—"HUH?"—more—"HUH?"

The smirk deepens, digging into a dagger-like sneer. "Why _yes_ , Frita. I believe this _is_ of my own accord, and you are simply taking in my conflicts and calling them your own." Her lips purse. "What a _faker_." Pause. Her eyebrows raise, lashes flutter.

"OHHH, YOUUUHHH!—YOU SHUT UP! RIGHT NOW!"

 _PWAAACK_! Right across the nose. You go, Frita, you go.

"Auhhh—what a feisty one." Freya's narrowed—bemused—eyes flicker. She silkily works her way around the next punch, catching Frita's hoof in her paw and smacking her free one into Frita's stomach.

She cries: "DFFF! YOU'LL PAY FOR THAT!"

Freya cackles.

A fistfight of sorts explodes from the voices. Freya's eyes narrow with her prey, just toying without real threat, but where she underpays Frita more than delivers. Punch by punch by punch—most admittedly missing her target—but the few that stay, oh those will leave some nice bruises. Freya worms her way around the golden sheep, keeping her moving in circles that slowly catch up with her, make the poor thing dizzy.

But eventually one of her fists hits her just right, because Freya falters.

 _KER-PLOOOOOOSH_!

And Freya falls: what a great fall it is.

Standing there, wheezy, sweaty, thoroughly disgusting, the sheep raises her browning muzzle. "AHA! I AM VICTORIOUS AGAINST THE ALLURING MAIDEN! SHE CANNOT TAKE ME DOWN! OHHH NO SHE CAN'T! WHO'S STRONGER, OH MAN, WHO'S STRONGER? IT'S FRITA! IT'S _FRITA_!"

Softly laughing, the wolf resurfaces, pulling hair from in front of her face.

"Aaaaaauh." Frita pulls over, smirking into Freya's wet muzzle. "How does it feel?"

"Horrible." The wolf rolls her golden eyes.

That certainly doesn't help with the ego. "It feels good punching you around the place! Thanks! I think I've cooled off a little now! AAAAAAUUUUuuuhh... oh, the energy has been released!" She pulls herself up, stretching.

"That was fun! We should all-out brawl again sometime!"

Watching with her bemused stare as the sheep parades about the grass, she pulls more hair from her eyes and spits out some water, slowly trotting up and out of its cold reaches. "Yeah, maybe. I'll have to see about that."

Well. It must be rather angst-inducing, living with a disliked relative and the relative's friend for some week or so on end. Freya's lucky, because now she has more time with the boy her feelings are rapidly growing over. Besides... he'll find her new story funny.

Frita certainly does. Oh, look at her prance. Good for her; she snorts; good for her.


	95. Of Ceaseless Proximity

Of Ceaseless Proximity.

"It won't be too much longer, will it?" whispers the girl. Her hood's over her head again; she's staring out the window, as if asking her nervous reflection. Big, aquamarine eyes boring into the glass, into the whisking-away scenes outside, little imprints she probably won't remember most of come morning.

It hasn't been too long. A week, maybe.

Phineas looks up from his volume, pulling back his glasses, sounding the old chugging engine of his throat. "Enjoy the journey back." Small smile. "But yes, not too much longer."

Lyla mutters something about impatience and having not seen them in weeks and worries and what if they hate her, oh, gosh, what if they all hate her by the time she gets back home.

Because... Because what if they do! She gets that she was in no way the kindest most perfect person of ever. Some had short tempers and snapped or try to punch at her. Slammed the doors. There were times. Plus she m-must've been annoying to Lucha... going to him... whining and crying... gaaahh...

Lucha wouldn't hate her, would he?

Well then again he is a bit of a dumb softy, so probably not. And if he did Deli wouldn't let him for long.

Deep breath. She steadies.

The old man oversees this all quietly. Eyes on the page in front of him, eyes on the girl beside him, eyes on the passengers around him, calculating. He's recognized one or two or three of these time-worn faces; thus he waits with a bit of angst.

Their meetings were but small cups holding stagnant water for memories. But those are some of the best remembered, the ones that sour along the edges. A frown thickens in his lips, brow furrowing as he glares at the words in front of him. Methodically he turns a page. Eyes at the number on the next: **ten**. Ah, slow. Very, very slow. His brow wrinkles a little more.

She got bored and he got innovative. An old pen in her hand, train-napkins spread out ahead of her. She's tried and failed to draw so many things, but she never crumples out her mistakes, doesn't lay waste to a single one of them. Just keeps drawing more.

Somewhere on the inside. Every time he looks at it, those awful scrawling lines, every time he looks, somewhere deep on the inside, he wants to laugh.

Usually he does. Lyla gives him this look, like _dude, what the heck_ , and that makes him laugh a little harder. It goes gruff on the edges, his chortle maturing, and then Lyla's frowning at her paper, slapping her hands over her precious children and muttering, "Stop it, stop it, stop it. D-Don't look at my art if you don't think it's pretty."

Sometimes he's tempted to tell her it's not art. But he knows better, after many years of saying it to others.

At some point their strange little duo draws attention; before the sea lion knows it a third party has joined on the other side, treading lightly on the chair in front of them. Facing backward into their silhouettes. A smirk drags like a snake, hard lashes across the face, and he watches, purring.

Phineas slouches.

" _Rover_."

The purr deepens. Phineas narrows his eyes but he doesn't look up from his page ten.

Lyla does. From her tenth page of napkin art. She holds the pulpy paper, fluttering beneath her fingers, and she looks long and hard into the dark yellow eyes.

Then she nearly screams. "Ro-ROVER! DUUUUDE!" A smile splits evenly through her pale lips. She's bouncing in her seat again. "ROOOVERRRR!" She tries her very best to exhume her elation, though of course it doesn't work what with that soft and dull tone.

Phineas pulls the book from the table and up into his face. He adjusts his glasses.

"Hey, Lyla! Dude, I told you that if I saw you I was gonna say hi! Maaan, it took you so looong, though!"

She blushes. "I-I had things to do!"

"Like _what_?" A catty grin up his white muzzle, reflecting like waves into his dark blue fur.

"Like—Like _really important things_! So important that if I told you"—she scoots in closer—"I would totally and completely _rock_ your _socks off_."

They're both giggling a bit, light fresh in the eye. "Well I'm not wearing socks." He shrugs. "What else?"

Their faces close up, Lyla smirking and giggling. Rover's nodding, leaning in, and their foreheads bump. She spins back blushing; he kind of stays there, a bit of shock on his face but mostly a bright mirth.

She never tells him what "things" she had to "do." Yet Phineas garners from their recollection that he knows it already, knew it by the time he came in and sat on the empty seat in front of them.

After their little bump, a friend joins the cat. Phineas continues staring at his stupid page ten and paws at the paper some.

"Oohhh my gosh, what are _you_ doing here!"

"Heyyy. Okay, so perhaps I did break up with Fauna, but that doesn't mean I stop existing afterward."

A very literal meaning hangs within dark, soulful eyes.

Finally, a little frustrated with himself, Phineas gets to page twelve.

The three continue with their banter, using very colorful and strange words. The "Fauna" lass is mentioned once or twice more, as well as "Steep Hill"s and "Puzzle"s and Lyla says more than five times that "It all makes sense now". No, he wasn't counting, what?

Lyla toys around with a word that the boys don't mention back to her.

"I think Jaxk is in a better place now."

"Do you? Well... he probably is, if you look at everything now."

"I'unno, Keke."

"I'm rather sure..."

"Oh come on. I-I was there! Jaxk and everything! Guys!"

"Lyla has a point, Rover."

"Hrahhh. Maaybe."

It is here that the old sea lion notes a lilt in the atmosphere, a cold draft. It never quite relieves, hanging on for moments entirely after the conversation has lost nerve and they move onto rock bands. Still a sliver, swallowing up but a bit of every word, hanging, waiting.

All the same it is gone. And eventually even the wisp has melted away. A dark shadiness that clings beneath the eye like black bags is released with this weight; there is a nodding upon the fluffy dog's head.

It makes him wonder. He recalls the struggle poor little Lyla had in the recount of her events.

And it makes him wonder.

The train goes _barrump-barrump_ on the rails, signaling a change. Lyla reads the next sign that passes: "You are approaching the town of—aaaauuuh! Oh my—oh my goodness—Phineas I think I want to stop here."

"Lyla?"

The cat and dog stir, eyes mischievous.

"Please, please, oh my gosh please."

He snorts. "But afterward we should go back to our original route."

She shrugs.

"Yeah, but if we're here, then we're _here_ , dude."

…

The humble outskirts of a very small town. Peaceful... well, mostly. One can only be so peaceful with such a loud and artful soul screeching for the heavens.

Her brother is beside her. They stroll often, and always on the same path, as if in patrol of something. And... maybe they are. The empty lot was only so small. Others already have begun to flood in. Just a few, not too many, but enough to keep the siblings bustling.

The bells in her hair twinge in step.

"Di-Digby, I can help with preparation! F-F-For goodness sake, I-IIII've helped Lyla plans sss-ssooooo many holidays! Thi-Thiiis isn't thaaaat much bi-iiigger!"

He would stoop over, look her in her big, blue eyes. "Isabelle," place a hand on her head, "you are not offering even the slightest of assistance. You are _not_ overexerting yourself _again_."

"Buhhh-Buuuuuuuhhhhhhh!" she'd go on whining, complaining, but the choice would not change. Digby was serious. He was always serious, and he was hardly likely to lift up on anything. He held onto his opinions which were admittedly usually the more hard and factual and well _true_ than others but... but... c-come on!

She's never been good at giving things up. She always lost but she'd never let go. Moping, crying. "Diiiiiigbyyyyyyyyyyy!" S-Sometimes it worked.

Not this time. "Isabelle." Taut and short. Like a noose, or the reading of her fate. "No."

More whining would ensue. In the end she never won, but whatever. Digby's mean anyways. _Mmmmeaaaaan_. Sssss-Sssssooo mean...

Even when she told him he was the absolute _worst_... well. It was funny. His smile would wobble a bit, his forehead would crease. He'd glance around nervously. He wouldn't let up. He wouldn't leave, either. Since they were children, he'd follow her around endlessly after they fought.

She thinks he never learned how to apologize. Isabelle shattered easily, so he grew a hard core. But he didn't know how, didn't know how to whisper those sweet, tender words to her, to let go of himself. Not even a bit.

But maybe that's what made him selfless. Or of a sort. Because he never let go of his ideals, because he thought they were the best for her. And, okay, they almost always were. Still...

Digby stays close until they hear the chugging.

"AAAA-AAAUUUUUUH! DIGBY DIGBY DIGBY!"

Wince. "Y-Ye—"

" SEE A GIRL IN THE WINDOW."

"Yes, I d—dhh—"

"DI-IIIIGBY I RECOGNIZE THE GIRL IN THE WINDOW."

His head falls a bit. He mutters, "Let's go," beneath her howling torment.

After they walked all the way out of Wherford, away from the problems, away from the tree, Isabelle did begin to let up. Just slightly. At first they thought about staying in Butterfly, then staying in Zoosis because Zoosis was smaller and less crowded.

Then the idiot girl got this idea stuck in her head that she could rebuild it.

Rebuild Marsh... that is.

Of course, all remnants of almost everyone are gone. Like a cloth torn off their white flag, gone by the storm, never to be found again. Of course, it never quite would return to itself. But oh goodness, if there was anything Digby knew about this dangerously heartful girl, it was that she couldn't sit still. She'd talk herself to death, she'd go running around in busywork and she'd immerse herself with a chaos she didn't need to take on. Especially not alone.

Idiot...

The dogs take their time, slowly working their way up to the train. The train stops as the passengers leave, but after the passengers leave the train doesn't go. Waiting, patiently, for the two standing toward the edge of the station-in-progress.

One tiny pale hand has found her in the marsh ahead. One tiny pale hand is waving.

The flag unfurls, and it takes off overhead, and it doesn't come down, not even after she crumples the poor girl into a hug.

 **I thought about having them be in Butterfly, but then I decided that wouldn't do. So! I mean... Julian's the only well "survivor" as they all were but "tools" having been "bent" "useless" in the end, but hey! Why not! Eheh...**

 **Originally when I was writing this story, Phineas—now I knew as I was writing that most special villagers, especially my koff favorites, would have at least one semibig role. Katrina and Kicks in the box, Nook and his talk with Bruce, Isabelle and Digby.**

 **But Phineas. Man. Okay. I LOVE PHINEAS.**

 **So that explains his waymuchscreentime role a little more, hahaha. He'll get more too... well duh, he hasn't just gotten to Wherford yet, has he! But anyways.**

 **Did you like Bruce? Do you feel bad for him? Do you understand anything about him? Or Keke, maybe? Did anyone even remember that Rover told Lyla once to talk with him sometime? XD**

 **Well. All that's left is the end, the real end. Lucha, Fauna, Jay... everyone. What happens? It's coming up, haha... man, I'm kinda sad thinking about this story being almost over. TTwTT**


	96. I am Far Away

I am Far Away

 _Ba-thhhmp. Ba-thmmp. Ba-thhhmp._

Pacing. Pacing. Pacing.

It's been days since that lousy Bruce showed up. Okay. _Okay_. Lucha is ready to strangle him with his bare and fringed and sad little wings. Because Bruce lied. He said, he said, he said—well he didn't come through now did he? His mouth ran like a broken faucet, and all of the words that spilled had already been tainted.

Lucha wishes he had his anime collection back.

He wants to pick up his laptop, mush all of his disturbing big-eyed collectible features together, and chuck one big meteorite of it all at Bruce. Set a tee-shirt on fire and stuff him in it. Oh, gosh. Never has he ever wanted to badly to hurt someone. It's—It's bad.

No... that's a lie.

The other time in his life he wanted to sear someone forever with a burn in his image was when his dad passed. Yeah... his mom invited Deli's whole family over and Deli's dad was... was pretty stony. Didn't have much to say. Idle, awkward. He dipped his fingers into his words and stirred.

That was the first time. And he thought the last.

Well.

It wasn't hi-his fault. N-Not really. He tried to immerse himself in a world of fiction where things never ended and he didn't even know who he was anymore but like the big, evil jerk she is she tore him out of it and then a tree tried to hit her and she fell and now she's gone and oh, gosh... She's not really gone is she?

And then he stops. Shaking slightly.

And when he stops he stays there. Staring into the trees, staring into the mist, staring into a world that has lost him where he stands, that tried to pin him with all kinds of terrifying actions that flash across his face in succession.

Lucha sits down. That helps but it doesn't help too.

 _ChhhhhhhhhhhhhhhGGGggggh! Barrum-barrum-barrum... barrum-barrum-barrum_...

Wings, shaky wings, curl into fists. Big gray eyes freeze in place. Skinny jeans crinkle along the edges.

 _Khhhhhhhhhsssshhhhhhhh_...

The soft murmur of a conductor, announcing release.

The soft thumping of feet, moving close. Very... very close.

A strange brownish creature—sea lion, he's guessing—comes out. Wrinkles. Backpack. Grin.

Lucha turns and starts to run and run and run and he is going to use his wings if he had to because _he swears when Bruce said—_ When Bruce said, Bruce said he saw her and Bruce said it wasn't over and Bruce said, Bruce said, Bruce said...

It's not her.

He can't believe how hard he's shaking. He holed himself up with anime for one of those reasons or another. Life made him shake. Hard. A lot. And it was scary. A lot of things were scary. Lucha's slowing down subconsciously, wings flickering by his side, eyes staring blankly into the earth below him.

"I lost something." Whispers it, quietly. Nods in confirmation. "I lost something important."

Deep, deep breaths. Wheeze—sigh—release. A sort of loss trickles into his face. His wings come close and he claps them over his head, breathing in weakly.

 _Whhhum!_

Something hits him from the back. He goes spiraling down, no resistance, just _pufffh_ on wettish grass. Something on top of him. Something heavy... but not very heavy.

Lucha struggles for an instant before dropping himself. Sifting his head into dirt. Twitching a little. Uncomfortable.

He catches eye of the person on top of him.

He decides that Bruce is not a liar after all and that he should stop attempting to threaten him.

Swallow. Squeak. "Whhh—What took you s-so long?"

"Um..." Failing to hide a grin. "I didn't know where I was. I can't even remember what it's called. And then Phineas had to help me... and well..."

Lucha struggles again, pulls himself upward, turns around. Nearly clips the side of her cheek with his bill, winces, stutters, back.

"Th-That's no good."

She stares, all big eyes and pale skin.

"Luch—?"

"That's... no good." Swallow. "No good. N-Not at all, no, no good. No. No no no..." Deep breaths, deep breaths slowly turn frantic. "It made me sad."

She looks away. Lips purse in an oh.

"Why did you leave?"

Still looking away. Can't meet his eyes. "Because someone made me."

"Oh..." Nodding. "Oh..." Face twists. Stops nodding. "Were you happy?"

"A-A little bit..." Shakes head. "A-A lot. But... then I wasn't.

She brightens considerably. "I-I saw Twiggy. And it made me sad, because she and Teddy and everyone else were sad. And you were sad. And _he_ was sad, and his servants were sad, but he said he was happy because he had me, but I thought he was still really broken and really trapped and stuff. And it made me sad then cuz I couldn't understand him."

His eyes glisten. Whispers, hopeful, "No?"

She giggles. "No." Whispers back. Blushing.

"So you came back?"

She blinks. "No..." Shudders. Shakes head. Shudders again. He wants to take off his jacket and give it to her but she's already in one. "He wanted me to stay. And I wanted to stay. But... in the end I don't think it would've worked out. So I think what happened was good."

He swallows again. "A-Are you...

Splutter. "Are you happy or sad?"

Lyla takes in what looks to be a very deep and very hard breath. Something flashes across her face. She looks up, then look down again, then releases it all slowly.

Turns toward him. Big blue eyes, bright and teal, a light color. Soft. Warm.

"Are you happy?"

He gives her this very very _duh_ look.

"U-Um, then I'm happy..!"

A bit of a smile, a bit of a shake of the head.

Wants to hug her, isn't very good at timing, she's still kind of on top of him, wants to hug her, really wants to hug her. Tries to hug her, fails, falls a bit, she gets all giggly and stuff and hugs him back, and that is easily the best part of his day...


	97. Worlds Separate Us

Worlds Separate Us

The October came and the October went, just as it did in Butterfly, and Marsh, and Zoosis. And then November strolled by, decided to stay for a good thirty days, and through this time it was decided that Phineas would like to stay too, at the very least until some of Wherford's latest problems were cleaned up some.

Tree. For one. Yes, bark would decay and go back into the soil eventually, but that was an awful lot of bark. Bruce, the dolt, apologized and apologized and they all pretty much got the idea that he wasn't in his right mind at the moment of impact, nor had he been for years. But still. Tree. Sorries didn't push gigantic logs out of town.

A lot of effort went into that tree. Those who hated the living guts of the town and had since they moved there stayed. Those who didn't particularly care stayed. Those who planned on starting college in the near future stayed. And those who wanted to stay, well: they stayed too.

Most everyone liked Phineas. Nice old guy. He had some quirks and he was slightly obsessed with books, but that was alright with them. Liked apples, too. Didn't stop him from helping the monkey plant some peaches. He rather admired the apple trees. Mentioned that he'd planted every last one of them. All his children.

What a thought.

Because of her unprecedented crisis of tree-in-house, Lyla ends up having to move in with someone else. She means... she didn't have much in the house, though she's a little upset about losing that really cool upstairs room, but she supposes it'll be fun having a sleepover for a month or however long it'll be with whomever.

Heh. She giggles, smiling at the ground.

Brings back memories.

Lucha is the one having Lyla notoriously plopped on his porch. His house was hardly hit by the avalanche, yet he was the one without anyone else alongside him. Heck... Nibbles or someone, actually maybe it was Fauna, whatever, _someone_ had like four people crammed in one spot, and Frita wasn't much better. Yeah, that.

Yet here he is... She leads off the glowing brown boards through the front of his home, big smile and everything. Plops her old coat full of fruit and on the ground, dusts off her hands, kicks off her clogs. And then it's just that sad, white dress.

The bird takes one look at the thing and covers his eyes. "That has to be the saddest thing I've ever seen."

She glances back at her dress, but she can't tell what the heck her strawberry-red friend is talking about.

"Oh, gosh," he mutters, still not looking, "it's so... sad. You might as well be wearing my life story or something... buh! I said that aloud!"

This, Lyla clicks. She runs a hand over her lips, giggling softly. "Naaw, that's alright."

Lucha's still not looking. Really, really not looking.

"Um..." Blushing. "Does it... does it look like an old Halloween costume?" She pinks over.

Then a grayish eye peeks out from behind red feathers, before retreating back under cover. "Uhhhhh... a little bit." He jolts. "I said that out loud too."

Another soft laugh. "Yeah, but that's okay... again. Heheh!"

Still not looking. Okay. This is getting a little sad.

"Luuuchaaaa..."

The pouting makes him feel kinda guilty, so he looks out again—hesitant, reluctant, sure, but he takes a big deep breath and tries his best to stare at that semi-grimy pale face. A pale face hanging with dark splotches drooping down her cheeks and into the ends of her chin, down, down, down like baggy brown tears pouring out from her and far, far away.

Giddy, he squeaks once more on impulse. "Y-You need a bath."

"Yeah, I do, don't I?"

Lucha swallows and turns around, feeling like the biggest idiot out there.

His back is met with a happy little grin, a girl jumping slightly in place, and a brightness about the aquamarine iris.

December first.

At least two months after the End of Things. They could count it now, just like anyone else. Days. A strange comfort, sure, but a needed one too.

December first: that's the day. A little over two months, maybe a little longer. Nothing past three. But they had the feeling the soonest was the best. Some would always call it "rushing". That's just how people are. Slow and steady. Take your time. You don't really know them.

Auh. Well maybe _you_ don't really know _us_. Whatever.

On the cute little day of December first, as snow fell and coated a grass carpet that hadn't a true winter in such ages, a doe and a bluejay were wedded.

Of course, everyone came. They held it in Wherford, below one of the higher-standing bits of wood, like an adorable arch for the new husband and wife, there they stood. She of a rosy face, big smiling lips. He could hardly look at much of anything, could hardly believe it was all happening, had a bit of a dazed look whenever someone approached him.

They each wore white. White tux, white dress. Fancy, but not too fancy. A good fancy, a nice one. One that allowed Curlos to wear his baseball cap and Nibbles in her old prom dress. Freya, of course, took her standard punk gear upon herself, though she made the point to put on some white eyeliner, white lipstick, and even bleached one of her jackets for it.

A permanent memory.

Of course, the white reminded her of someone else too, but he was out of their happy little wedding now. That being said... he did come. And he wished Fauna well, and he merely gave Jay a strange and utterly placated, peaceful look. And he didn't stay long. But that was rather alright with her.

Fauna managed to get Lyla out of her dress and managed to wash it and managed get it back on her before the event. Something about homeless people and their single last pair of clothing. What a shame. It must've been a pretty white thing before they all met her.

Someone brought roses, too. White. Precious, succulent, sweet-smelling roses. Someone carefully pruned the spines out of the gorgeous stems; someone brought roses for them.

A few could guess who. Deli asked her about it later. She snorted, rolled her eyes. Yeah, whatever, good for him.

December first was a happy day. A tree stood wastrel in the midst of a long-deserving home; the sky was brimming of puffy white clouds; it was dreadfully cold; her poor Deli was starting to cough a lot.

Ah, but it was such a happy day.


	98. I Believe that Never Shall I Ever

I Believe that Never Shall I Ever

It took a lot of time.

Nobody said they would count the months, but it was particularly easy now. October, then. Now it was spring. April, May... May. The twentieth or something. No, but that was a lie too. The twenty-second. May twenty-second: that was the day.

After countless rest breaks and countless handfuls, countless piles, countless temper tantrums, countless pieces and scraps all the way down to the morsels of it, the tree was all but gone. Houses had peeled and withered away like its spoiled fruits in the process, those that were struck by the impossible tree, and still in some spots of dirt the grass had yet to grow.

There it is. A big sky. A sun, too. Not very many clouds. Maybe, like, five. One of them looks kinda like a duck, which is cool. Man, duck clouds. Duck clouds are the best. They, like, waddle, and flop around, and they have huge face-bill-things. And they're fun to watch.

And they're birds, too.

Birds can fly. Ducks are birds.

Lyla pulls out her arms and stretches.

"Didn't Bruce say something about leaving in a month? About finding his family again... job... money... right?"

Beside her stands a certain camouflaged boy. Hands shoved into the pocket of his sweatshirt, casually chilling beside her. Why he's wearing a sweatshirt in the near-summer is beyond her, but okay, Camofrog. It's big and bulky, and mostly white, but there's splotches of gray and yellow mingling in there too.

"Yeah, he did." He snorts, deep voice beckoning. "Good job remembering?" A shrug. "I don't even know."

Lyla shrugs too. "Same."

He rolls his eyes.

"Camo, were you painting earlier?"

The eyes roll up to the sky. "I wonder _what_ gave it away. _No_ , Lyla, I was _not_ painting."

"Oh." She pinks in the face, stops for a moment.

His eyes narrow. "It's sort of funny how you don't react to sarcasm, but it annoys me, too. Ugh."

She hardly reacts. "Why the heck did you paint in a big hot sweater?"

"Because Nibbles was washing my other clothes and I didn't feel like painting shirtless."

"Dude," she giggles. "Too much informa—"

Lyla bursts off into a bout of laughter as the frog tosses his hands in the air.

They continue on their stroll toward the relatively-remade train station.

"What exactly did Freya want?"

She's looking up. "I dunno." Eying her duck cloud. "Fauna's the one that told us, and she got it from Jay, who got it from someone else, from someone else... well. At some point it was Freya. I... uhhh... Wherford stuff? Buh? I think Fauna mentioned Phineas too..."

Camofrog's looking up too. He eyes her duck cloud, but he doesn't think it looks like a duck at all. "Yeah. I remember that much. I hope it's not something about how we all have to be buddies and stay together and... gaaaah." A dragon, maybe? He cocks his head. Yeah, a big winged fire-breathing dragon. Overpowered and everything.

"Oh... right. Nibbles didn't wanna..."

"Yeah. Though I don't blame her. I have some pretty awful memories here too. It's not a... one-person thing. Heh..."

A hand subconsciously raises to his neck; then it falls, swinging in tandem with the girl's beside him.

"I'll miss you..."

"We'll probably visit more often than we can afford." He guffaws slightly. "Nibbles thinks a fashion designer earns more than they actually do. Same with artists..." Rolls his eyes.

Lyla shrugs. "It's cuz you're so dang good at art, dude."

The brown eyes collect in the sunshine, and the colors spring forth. Swirling, swirling, brown, amber, gold, black.

Yes. That's certainly a dragon.

"Oh, maybe..."

He waves it off. Not really.

At the entrance to the train station there is a new sign. A poorly-crafted sign stuck together by bits of poorly-crafted wood, and carved in by some insane knife, but there it is. Freya had this grand idea to make a little poster for their town, yelling the name, hang it up outside, get their humble little home on the maps.

Isabelle, big and fluffy and sweet as per usual, meets the two on the way in. She's been visiting a lot more, now that they have Marsh up and particularly running.

Pleasant and smiling, she pulls Lyla into one of her big hugs, then looks at Camofrog, and while she doesn't hug him too, they share an understanding in the eyes.

Camofrog isn't the only soul in need of new roots.

Others approach from behind. Jay and Fauna, hands seemingly always tied together. Lucha in one corner doffs his head to the girl. A certain monkey is mirthfully glaring at him by the side of the wolf and the sea lion. Julian rubs at an eye self-consciously, like there's a single sparkle out of place. The pair of sheep stay about him, Curlos admittedly much nearer.

It takes a few minutes for them to realize it is not WHERFORD heedlessly carved into the wood, oh no, not hecking WHERFORD at all.

There's a bit of a rumble, a bit of disturbance.

Freya raises a pink padded paw, her golden orbs cooling.

"I... ah, I know, it's a little strange. But... well, if nobody truly hates the idea—and I doubt any of you do—wouldn't it be something nice? I know, Bruce, please don't hate me for doing it"—a glare in the far corner—"but... Phineas and I thought it would be a nice touch—auh"—elbowed by the side—"and Deli, too..!"

Big, awkward, blocky, loopy letters. Sloping halfway through, charred and brown.

She was right, though. Nobody refused the name. A stupidly simple touch. A nice little touch. Perfect, one or two would say. And maybe it was.

WHERFREE


	99. Understand

Understand

Lucha is blushing, oh, he is blushing awfully. On and off of Freya's run-on speech, the monkey slinks over to his best friend. Elbows him once. Twice for good measure. Tilts his head up, a smirk crawling down his lips. Eyebrows raised awfully high. Eyes awfully nasty; another elbow to his chest.

They each have their whole and entire attention absorbed into that stupid curly-haired girl, and Lucha will not stop blushing. Softly, in between his girlfriend's ill-paced wording, Deli murmurs, "So... do you believe me or don't you?"

"Sh-Shut up," is all he could get out of him, over and over and over again. "Shut up, shut up, shut up, you horrible creature." Freya's lifted her own sharp tongue to catch wind of the bird's voice shaking . Head hung, white-feathered face as red as most everything else, his dark arms folded over each other.

"Yes, Deli, I believe you, okay?"

A curl of the lip forks his frown upside-down. "Yeah. Me too."

On her own in the midst of the five-or-so-minute drawl—Freya trying to talk about how _great_ their town is and that _this is a new day_ and simply they must _embrace their world together_. You know. Everything Camofrog didn't want to hear. He's grumbling under his breath, hands balled up in his pockets beside her.

She hasn't had this much time to freely think in quite awhile. Yes... there was the tree, and the removal of the tree, and the many months that meant, but she... all of her strength was going into _that_ , nothing about her brain, her thoughts. She can't think and work at the same time or somebody was bound to get a splinter. So here she is... just... wondering.

At first she's just kind of out there. Wow, Deli has a weirdly fancy vest on. Well maybe Freya made him wear it. Oh, duh. He probably knew about the whole thing. Then she's thinking about how pushy a lot of these villagers are and wondering why the heck it happened this way. And that makes her laugh. Then her mind goes back to Freya because Freya's glaring at her rather sharply for laughing through a piece of her serious speech.

Veeeery serious. So serious that Lyla is hanging onto her every word.

Totally.

Okay, back to Freya. She looks over, glances at the monkey, who is also talking softly through this poor wolf's presentation; it's funny how they ended up together. Nobody saw it coming...

Hey... does Lyla like anyone? Uh—like that, that is? Does she... in her heart... does she... uhh... Looking back on it, and while she is bad at looking back on things, she has been kinda giddy recently... hadn't thought much of it. Huh. Well. With the wedding back a few months ago, everyone getting hooked up... it'd only seem natural for her to... too... yeah... Aw dang it, but nobody's... lonely like that, not really... not like her...

Her head nearly flips on her neck. Back into the corner of the room, into the face of the tanned boy standing back there.

Bruce is alone... huh.

Heeeeey... Lyla, she asks herself, are you in love with Bruce?

In return, she goes, uh, maybe?

Well that's about as good of a yes as she's getting from herself.

After the presentation, as everyone begins dissolving off into small groups and talking softly, Lyla scampers off to the strawberry bird in the other corner of the train station. She tosses her head back, crying, "Luuuuchaaaaaa! I need your heeeeelllllpppp!"

The bird jolts in place. Blush scribbles furiously across his cheeks. "Y-Yeah? Wh-Wh-What's up?" Trying to smooth his down, trying not to look too awkward.

Lyla simply grabs his wing and pulls him through the throng of villagers, down and down and out. They go through a small woodland of apple trees and pass by Deli's miniature peach orchard at some point, and she finds a nice little flower patch about and behind it.

Deli likes gardening. A-A lot.

Another thing they didn't know for so long.

She sucks in a few deep breaths, rubbing her heated cheeks. "Lucha, I-I need your help picking these. N-Not too many... maybe, uh, I dunno, twelve, that's not all that many, I think, but... I need your help."

He looks back at his pale, dear friend, a big incredulous question in his eyes.

"For"—she coughs—"For"—another cough—"For Bruce! Cuz I think I have feelings for him, and I think I'll melt trying to tell him if you're not there for me."

He blinks, a silent oh on his lips.

Quiet then, without the words to speak, the two bow heads and sift through the petals. Lucha's dark fingers poke around for what he hopes can be something nice, really nice, only the best flower out there, which is impossible and means he won't be picking anything but he doesn't give up, leaving Lyla to her own devices.

He takes long enough that she evidently picks eleven flowers before he's even found one.

Black. Long, waxy petals. Luscious-looking, luscious-smelling. He accidentally pricks himself on the stem, and it draws a bit of blood, it's so sharp—that's how he finds it. If he's ever seen a better rose, this one's eaten the memory whole.

Gently, he uproots the rose and pulls Lyla's pale little hand, gently folding it over a less-dangerous spot. Her big aquamarine eyes dive into it, pinching a little above the brow. Her eyes are deep, deep inside of the rose, and she twists her finger around the stem, then back, then around again, like she's hesitant to put it in with the rest of the pile, to lose her feel on this one.

He wants to ask her what it is that's going on in her head. He doesn't, ultimately, but he wants to. Wants to, badly. Looks away.

"Lucha?" Her voice is quiet.

He risks a look, then looks away again, face heating awfully.

"Do you ever feel really, really stupid..?"

He pauses. Deep breath. Um. "A-All the time, honestly." Nervous laughter. Nearly kicks himself.

"G-Good." She blinks, trying to look into his face. "I do too... hahhhh..." Looking away again. Now she's a little pink.

Lucha looks at her, looks back, tries to look at her again. Her aquamarine eyes are unnaturally dark. His heart hammers in his chest and he pulls a wing over it, squeezing slightly.

She's dropped her eleven flowers. Grasping tightly to the one. Despite all of his precaution, both of her hands are speckled in bloody polka-dots.

Nervously, she's looking at him again. Big, sad, desperate eyes, forlorn and pressed into. "Umm... do you ever... do you... uh..." She presses her lips together.

He can't look. Oh, gosh, he can't look. Quietly asks her, "What?" in a raspy voice.

"I-I don't know."

Oh. Um.

"Oh, uh! Uhh..." Lucha glances toward her; only now Lyla's looking away. His heart beats fitfully. "Lucha, um... why was your house so empty when I came? Whe-When everybody else was all crammed in rooms and stuff, why did you... u-um..." She swallows, blinking tightly.

"Because I... had hope. And they didn't I guess. They'd seen too much. I-I thought I had, but then I hadn't, and then I waited even though it should've been hopeless. H-Haha... Hah...

Shaking his head. "But then it wasn't."

"N-No..." Lyla plops a hand over her heart. "No... then—then it wasn't."

Quiet. They're sitting in the little flower garden, unable to glimpse one another.

"Lyla?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you really, really like—uhhhh—d-do you, um, you know... do you..." His voice lowers. "Do you like-like Bruce? Do you really?"

She swallows. Relief washes over her. "I don't think so." Big, hopeless blue eyes.

"Then, um..." Oh, gosh, oh, gosh. Deli was righter than he's ever gonna get to know. "Can I, uh, can I hug you?"

Lyla takes a very angry look to her very bloody hands.

"Uhh... maybe we should do something about that first."

She giggles awkwardly, slumped slightly inwards.

After he takes her to the river, and she washes off her hands, he quickly snatches them from her. Very awkward, face very red.

Quietly asks the girl again if he can hug her. Hates Deli so much. Hates him for always being right. Hates him even more when she tries to nod, staring at the ground.

He forgets about the hate. Forgets about that stupid, smug monkey who knows him better than he does himself. Forgets about how awkward and clingy and weak he is, and he forgets about his stupidity too, as well as hers.

Doesn't think too much into it, just acts. Softly pecks her cheek. Holds her tightly.

Be-Because dang it, he loves her. Because they were all right, every last one of them, when they thought he... and they thought she... eventually...

They were right. And he's awfully happy they were right.


	100. That That's Alright

That That's Alright.

Not many days after, Camofrog said his final adieus. He took some of his clothes and all of his paints, and he took his girlfriend and she took her clothes, and after some hugs and some promises to visit, they loaded up on the train and they were gone, long gone, not minutes later.

Isabelle and Digby finished loading and filling Marsh with new, unrecognizable faces. Happy faces all the same. The two left as well. Staying in an artist loft area, apparently not far from where the frog and the squirrel were going. The fluffy, sunny dear was upset to leave her friends, but they all knew that she needed to go somewhere else, somewhere better for her. She said she'd miss them at least ten times, that number doubling the morning of.

As soon as possible, Frita was out. She didn't leave but a way or means of contact—well, outside of her cousin. Curlos assured that he knew how to choke something sentimental out of her, and that he would, when the time was right.

Bruce was perhaps the only one to leave in truly high esteem. Mostly because he was forced—by the wolf herself. _Go to college already! You've wasted ten years here, you idiot! You can't become a lawyer overnight! Go! GO!_

It wasn't meant to be for a long time, he assured, but even Deli had a means of leaving. He wouldn't be gone long, perhaps three weeks at the most, but he had some things to do. Parents to talk with. Family. The like. He asked if any of the others planning to stay had a word they wished to be passed face-to-face by a friend for their own families.

Fauna had a big long promise prepared to hers. That she was happy, married, and—very happy. And her husband was handsome. But nobody else could have him, and that was that!

Jay had similar things to say about his wife, but not a family to say them too. He kind of awkwardly wrote these thoughts out to _her_ parents.

With careful instructions on how to get to Wolfclaw, Phineas asked the monkey to let his humble friends—under the name of Skye—know that he was staying, and he was rather pleased here.

Honestly Freya didn't care about her folks. Curlos hadn't much, although apparently Julian had a twin brother he wanted to be told that he was alright. Lucha just needed his older sister to know that she was a horrible person; Deli assured him that she wasn't going to hear that.

When he got around to asking Lyla, for a moment, she had to admit... she was tempted. For a moment she really was. She hadn't talked to her parents for over five years now, and the number only grew larger with each passing day... but she ultimately refused. It's alright, it's fine.

Talking about them always makes her nervous. Her parents were understandably overwhelmed by the amount of work she couldn't complete and underwhelmed by her final performance in school. Sure... everyone cools off after some time... but... no... no.

She realizes that this is a normal thing. A-A normal problem to have. A-All problems are normal, honestly... but this one... this little piece of cut glass inside of her, it's not gonna... She smiles gently.

Besides. From what she's heard, Lucha's mom is the actual best—Barbara forever. Not to mention Midge.

She'll just be careful. When someone asks, she'll smile and casually—annoyingly—change the subject.

Very careful. Dark eyes blink softly from within a hard, maturing core.

At some point, Lucha looks up from wherever the two of them are, and he asks, "You know... have you ever thought about it?"

"Mm?" He's big on statements that pretend she knows what he's talking about too.

"Oh—sorry, right. Ah... I was wondering how it's weird that we're all of different species—I mean—uh—besides me and Jay, but like, we're both boys, so we can't..."

She blinks. "Can't what?"

Lucha's casual about it. "Make kids."

"Oh yeah."

"Yeah." He nods. "And nobody else can, either. We're all of varying species otherwise. Frita left and... well, now there's not even the slightest of chances."

Pause.

One of these days, off in the far reaches of the future, everyone in Wherfree will die. So long as nobody moves in after them, so long as they each are picked off, piece by piece, so long as this doesn't change, their blood will not go on.

Lyla releases a breath, tilting her head forward. "I'm... honestly, I'm relieved."

"Heh." Gently the strawberry bird nods. "Me too..."

He pulls a wing about her, and she smiles, blushing, and he mirrors her.

It's a nice thing, knowing that nobody else is going to experience what you did. Not the same way as you, not even slightly of contrast, not ever, ever again.

Their chapter will close. Never again shall it be opened

But a light waits at the end of their journey. Their long, long journey.

Ah, what a thought.

As the two, strung together like before, bumping shoulders, Lyla giggling, as the two pass beneath the sun, there is a new careful lightness to their step. It follows them all the way to his snug home, and it follows them long afterward.

THE END


End file.
